Beyond Major Case
by Mark Daniel
Summary: Post Episode 8, Season 10. Rated M mostly for language.
1. Chapter 1

The main characters in this story belong to Dick Wolf and the wonderful world of Law & Order.

As this story is slowly spawned, it is important to note that CI recently aired its final episode. And yes, I have strong feelings about this show not being renewed.

This story is rated M for disturbing crime scenes, explicit language and sexual content.

In addition, this story begins where episode 8, season 10 left off and is not in any way related to a trilogy I wrote about dreams and nightmares.

When I first ventured into CI, I did not believe that Goren and Eames were meant to be shipped, nor did I believe that the characters were ever intimate during the show. With that being said, I've come to believe that post season ten - shipping is where the show and writers decided to take it. So, yes - I am now a believer. And so it goes . . .

* * *

><p><em>Chapter 1<em>

Traveling southbound down Broadway on route to the Federal Reserve Bank, Robert O. Goren knew the odds of taking a case off the hands of the Feds; his partner knew them too.

The Feds always had first dibs when it came to violent crimes and any major theft that occurred within the confines of a national bank or any local bank of the Federal Reserve for that matter. And although it was unsaid that they'd work alongside local law enforcement, uh, well, it depended on politics, the notoriety associated with the act on hand and pure luck.

Leaving the office of Dr. Paula Gyson, Goren roughly calculated that they could be to the crime scene in about ten minutes flat. That being said, the mind can cover quite a bit of ground in ten minutes, or rather, six-hundred seconds.

_Right now, I think the job is vital to you._

Sweat began to bead off of his forehead as he powered his passenger-side window down. The humidity that had been slowly building on the clear June day increased his desire to peel off his sports jacket. In the end, his regimented personality overruled his need to cool-down. It came down to the knowledge that he'd soon be posturing with the Feds, and truth be told, Goren was already starting to feel naked without an undershirt, dress-shirt, tie and tie-clip. Given the mental sparring he'd undergone in his latest session with Dr. Gyson, he could only wonder about this somewhat irrational desire to look and feel professional at this very moment.

_The job gives you structure . . . _

And at this point, a headache – I mean after he'd left Gyson's appointment, _she _was standing there.

Eames.

_It's a lie, but it's the one you've chosen to believe._

Eames was, you know, like a goddamned patron saint, waiting patiently for him, framed between the black police-issue SUV and an a young maple tree. Soft brown hair, angelic little hope-filled eyes, even her stance was fucking classic – as if she had been ripped right out of the Italian Renaissance painting.

And seeing her like that was the straw that broke the camel's back. And suddenly, it was like it all came together for him, a moment of lucidity - which was strange really, because he'd known it all along.

So, within a split-second, all of those years he'd spent lying to himself about how he felt about her suddenly came crashing down.

_Alex._

_How'd it go?_

And it was all about the relief that flooded into her eyes after he relayed that everything had worked out just fine. Her warm expression conveyed and confirmed everything he knew to be true. She cared. She authentically gave a damn about him, always had you know? Loyal to the fucking bone.

_True love? We all want to believe._

And no one wanted to believe more than he did.

_I-I want to believe. Make me believe._

But moments after they stood looking at one another locked in an awkward silence, mere seconds after she climbed into the driver's side and closed the door, he could tell that she'd read the hesitation on his face.

And what could he have possibly said to her? He loved her - loved her dearly.

The job was vital to him? _Eames_ was vital to him.

_Eames_.

Eames gave him structure.

Eames gave him a sense of purpose.

But even Goren understood that he was not ready to commence with a relationship. Gyson had said as much: there was the anger management and trust issues. In fact, Gyson and he hadn't even ironed out whether a man like himself could have what other people had: _a house, a relationship._ Gyson had glossed over any specific treatment or prescription. Although he recalled something generic about putting in the work and time, not to mention continued fucking sessions . . .

_… there's no way you can trust your own judgment_

Well, one thing was for certain, he was not going to fuck it all up with Eames. And there was no room for error on this one. Like it or not, he would need help, guidance and direction.

And as Eames put the police issue Explorer into park, one thing was clear: they'd beat the Feds to the scene. What was less clear, as they shuffled up the steps to the main doors, lifting the crime scene tape for her to duck under, was if he could finally get what he wanted and not fuck it up entirely.

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter Two_

Federal Reserve Bank of New York, 33 Liberty Street, Sunday, June 19

* * *

><p>Goren and Eames had little time to navigate the scene of the crime before the Feds showed up to crash their party.<p>

After a slightly combative conversation with Agents Toro and Stevens, Eames stepped out of the somewhat awkward confrontation armed only with her cell phone and Captain Joseph Hannah's mobile number. And although Eames was just out of audible range, Goren felt genuinely confident she'd be able to receive final confirmation on who was to be awarded jurisdiction of the DOA first.

Meanwhile, both federal agents were less than amused by Goren's not-so-subtle antics. It wasn't until Eames excused herself to contact Hannah that Goren finally removed his formidable frame from Agent Toro's personal space.

The body of CEO Gordon Reinhardt had been gunned down some fifteen feet away – an area that was still well within Goren's peripheral vision. Witnesses and employees of the bank that had given statements to both himself and Eames were being released only after being subjected to giving a duplicate version of the events to the Feds.

"It's irrelevant that you got here first," Toro reminded, a touch of arrogance coloring his tone.

Goren smirked at the pronouncement, eyes deliberately cast downward as if he were too busy studying the random patterns on the bank's marble floor. He was caught between the desire to continue to irritate the agents or move a step closer towards his partner; a course that might help him determine the fate of the case before his competition.

"Aggressive wench," Stevens muttered under his breath.

Goren's body stiffened as the words left Stevens' mouth. Within seconds his blood boiled and he felt his fists clench. So much for his poker face.

"She wear the pants detective?" Stevens leered.

_When you malfunction, I'm trying to find out what happens and when._

It wasn't difficult to figure out what Stevens and Toro were doing, the question was whether or not Goren had the self control necessary to stay in line.

_You need to learn how to curb your anger to keep your job._

"Of course he doesn't wear the pants, she's the senior partner," Toro directed back at Stevens.

_And it's going to be hard – but you're smart enough to learn how to game yourself._

Goren forced himself to take a breath, count to ten and then look at Eames. He watched her left hand gesturing vigorously in the air. _God, do I really need to embarrass her again? This is the kind of shit that landed me with the shrink in the first place. And why does it matter that they are talking smack about Eames? She can hold her own. Why can't I?_

Finally, after what seemed like a painfully long period of time of self reflection, Goren noticed that Eames just ended her conversation. Although Eames was turned away from him as she slipped the phone into her back pocket, he clearly observed her pause, take in a breath and square her shoulders. And with that, it was clear as day that they'd just lost jurisdiction to the pricks.

Eames calmly walked back towards him, as if somehow she'd comprehended that he'd already translated the news from her body language.

She spoke congenially as she approached Toro and Stevens, her right hand extended for a handshake, "as the body has yet to be released to the morgue, looks like you'll be taking the trip to the hospital."

Toro accepted Eames' gesture with a self-congratulatory smile, Stevens simply nodded his head in her direction.

Goren couldn't help but squint in displeasure. As far as he was concerned, these assholes didn't deserve any civility for their part. But for Eames' sake, he nodded begrudgingly towards both agents.

They walked in silence away from the scene, Goren understanding that he'd get the necessary details on the ride home.

"What was that all about?" Eames queried with an arched eyebrow, using her fob to unlock the car doors.

"Simple posturing," Goren replied, edging his large frame into the passenger side.

Eames buried a smile as she belted herself in and eased off the emergency break, "well, I though we'd give it a whirl."

He nodded back, deep in thought, wondering for the first time just how the timing had worked out with Eames, the DOA and his Sunday shrink appointment.

"Damn," she muttered, turning the key while depressing a button to power open all the SUV's windows at once, "humid as hell." Her rather piercing gaze fell upon him for the second time today, "I hope you're not disappointed," she spoke slowly raising both eyebrows, hesitating slightly before adding, "I mean, at least we have one reason to celebrate."

He smiled brightly, remembering clearly the relief he'd felt when Gyson confirmed that she wasn't going to take his job away, "she, uh, Dr. Gyson said that I was, you know, more than capable of doing my job."

Eames beamed brightly back at him, "damn straight. So, where should we go?"

"I'm sorry?" he started, "Oh, to, uh - celebrate?"

She nodded, brushing a stray hair out of her face, "I'm buying."

"No, Alex . . ."

She cocked her head slightly amused, "that's the second time today."

He raised his brows questioningly, slightly embarrassed that he was having a difficult time following her train of thought this afternoon. I mean, they usually were in synch, even without words.

"You hardly ever call me Alex," she looked at him intently, trying to read his expression before any of his explanations might pour forth, "so many things, you know, I feel like maybe," she paused again, eyes warm with hope, "maybe we're getting back on track again, it's, um, it's real nice Bobby."

His heart stirred, a warm sensation spreading through his chest - almost giving him the extra push he needed to take pull off his blazer in the sweltering afternoon heat.

"Uh," he mused, "how about Delmonico's?"

"Okay," she flashed a killer smile in his direction before checking her mirrors and pulling the car out onto Liberty street.

There was so much he wanted to tell her, and at the same time so much he'd need to hold back until he had time to explore his inner feelings and emotions.

And the more time he had to ponder Gyson's consult, the more he felt confident that Gyson was probably right all along.

It _was_ the job.

He'd put the job not only above himself, he'd put it above the feelings and emotions he had for Alex.

_The job_: from his stint in the army, to narcotics, and finally to MCS. I mean, he was so good at what he did, so much so, that for the first time in his life he could float above all others. Fly far above his pathetic beginnings – you know, that of a poor Italian-American kid raised almost single-handedly by a mentally-ill mother in one of the many awful low-income complexes in Brooklyn.

The job . . .

_You're convinced it's the only thing that defines you. You think without the puzzle, you don't matter. . . _

And yes, as he enjoyed each year of success - he had lied to himself like a son-of-a-bitch. Was that really so odd? With each passing year he became more removed from his humble roots until finally, it wasn't so hard to see why _the job (and the job alone)_ made him special. His success propelled him to Major Case, gifted him the opportunity to work with the talented Alexandra Eames. So it wasn't hard to comprehend why _the job_ was the only thing that made him unique and special to Eames too. What would he be without the job? Would she find him special? Could she love him outside of the job?

Goddamned he needed Gyson's help. He didn't know the answer to some the most basic questions. And then there was the other statement Gyson had suggested - one that confused the shit out of him:

_There's so much more to you than that._


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter Three_

Delmonico's, 56 Beaver Street, Sunday, June 16

* * *

><p>Goren and Eames shared an appetizer before diving into dinner, seared Atlantic Halibut and a glass of Cab for him, and Boneless Rib Eye with a Malbec for her.<p>

And it was all very pleasant, considering this wasn't a working meal and they were both off-duty. Goren could count in his head how many times he and Eames had shared drinks together, and a majority of those occasions happened during the MCS Christmas get-togethers.

With none of the awkwardness of a date, they engaged in conventional conversations which ranged from Eames' nephew, an interesting article he'd read in _The Smithsonian_, to Eames' latest shooting range score: she always was tighter on her accuracy, while Goren usually managed to get top scores in relation to timing. He watched her tell a story from her days in the academy, her eyes twinkling and her arms animated in gesture. At that precise moment, he felt the same calm and happiness he'd experienced as he walked out of Gyson's office. The confidence and validation he felt knowing he'd be able to keep his job, followed by seeing the one person he wanted to share that news with. The only minor quandary in Goren's mind was how to wrest the bill from Eames before the meal was through. Armed with a decent sleight-of-hand, Goren did have a few tricks up his sleeve, and like all good detectives - several backup plans.

And perhaps it was the Malbec, but Eames appeared happier than he'd ever recalled. By all definitions, she was exuberant, a warm glow spreading across her high cheekbones as she recalled an informal bet she'd made with Captain Hannah regarding his ability to finish his psych sessions.

"Looks like I won."

"And what did you win?"

"Ah ha ha," Eames shook her head grinning broadly, "no, you see, it was a gentlemen's bet, that's all."

"As if you aren't the most respected detective at Major Case."

"Please," Eames rolled her eyes, before fiddling with the neck of her wine glass seemingly deep in thought, "you know, this last case, it was um, well it's not like we haven't seen the same scenario again and again."

"Kizmate?"

Eames nodded, "yeah, I mean, I think there's only been a handful of times I've truly believed the suspect - believed that it was the real deal."

"True love? But people kill over love all the time," Goren swirled the Cabernet in his wine glass, "reinforced every time we hit the streets, sex or money."

Eames shook her head in wonder, "Danielle and Thomas. Sure it's often about sex, but love? I guess, when I think on it, we are usually looking at the other end of the spectrum, more dysfunction and sex as opposed to love. I mean, in the beginning of our investigation, well, I guess looking at it all in hindsight - "

"Perhaps there is hope for us all," Goren softly interrupted, pushed the garnish to the edge of his plate with his fork, waiting for her reaction.

Eames cocked her head to the side, her soft brown eyes looking for clarification.

"I've decided, uh well," Goren cleared his throat, "Dr. Gyson suggested that I continue with sessions, and uh – I'm going to keep up my weekly appointments with her."

Eames was silent for a moment, nothing but her eyelids blinking, her expression unreadable, "well, that sounds like that's a good thing, um - that you are good with it?"

Goren sighed, "well, I respect her opinion enough to know that I should listen to her."

"I'm very happy for you Bobby," Eames dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, "I've, um, after everything you've gone through these past few years, I mean - you know, therapy was very important for me after the abduction."

He sat back slowly, always a bit uncomfortable with how he should react when the abduction issue came up. Truth be told, to this day just thinking about the abduction made him sick to his stomach. Sick when he remembered how close he'd been to losing her. And not just losing her, but losing her in a very bad way. Before he could respond in a meaningful way, he heard her cell phone ring tone.

Eames picked up her phone, and squinted at the number. Something was definitely up.

"Dad?"

She mouthed the word "sorry" and excused herself from the table.

And the good that came out of the phone call, was that while she was out, he was able to pay the bill.

When Eames returned, she asked him if it was okay if they pick up a prescription for her father after they finished their meal. To Goren's relief, the situation wasn't serious, Eames' father had been fighting a nasty bug, the symptoms of which sounded a lot like bronchitis. It was the length of time Johnny Eames had been fighting the symptoms combined with his age and a few other obvious risk factors.

An although it was out of the way, of course he agreed to her request. It was the second time he'd been to Johnny Eames' abode, not to mention the second time he'd been there this month.

* * *

><p>"Dad!"<p>

"What is it sweetie?"

"There's nothing edible in your fridge. What did you eat tonight?"

"I haven't yet, honey," Johnny Eames stifled another cough, "I've been feeling you know, not so good. But thank you for picking up the prescription."

"I'm walking over to the deli," Alex decided, "no arguments dad, so what do you want?"

After taking her father's order, Alex looked over at Goren, concern still washed over her face, "you are welcome to come."

"It's okay, I'll keep Mr. Eames company."

"Thanks," Alex sighed, the relief was easy to pick up in her tone.

"So, Bobby," Johnny Eames cleared his throat, straining his neck to look out the window to ensure that his daughter was out of audible range, "when are you gonna make your move?"

"Sir?"

"After Joe, you know, I was really worried about her. And a few years after that, once in a blue moon she'd bring home some knot-head home, and Jesus they were all real pieces of work, you know? I thought that she was afraid to date a real public servant or you know another cop, because she was gun-shy. I know, I know, she shouldn't be dating her partner, but you guys have been together for - "

Goren tried to shrug it off, chuckling lightly even though internally, he felt his nerves beginning to fray, "Listen, Mr. Eames, I – uh, I don't t-think you've got - "

Johnny shook his head, and gently cut him off by holding up his right hand, "Don't be modest about it, you should know that I approve of you. You're smart and I respect you, even if you aren't one of our own Inwood Irish Catholics. But I get it Bobby, maybe you are getting up there in age to start a family. I mean, I know better than anyone else, it's not easy. Heck, I started a little sooner than you, but even at your age, it's still possible."

Goren was doing everything in his power to hide his mortification, as this was not the conversation he was prepared to be having this moment with Alex's father. It wasn't often that he felt uncomfortable in a social setting.

"Look," Johnny continued, "maybe I'm putting the horse before the cart, but –"

"No, I uh, I don't think you understand, I mean I – uh, obviously I care very much about your daughter, but we are, we're partners, and I'm comfortable with that. I've got things to work through right now, maybe Alex told you about –"

Johnny smiled and shook his head, "look, we've all been where you are right now, been single too, you know? But I'll let you in on a little secret. We're not getting any younger Bobby, and even after serving with NYPD all those years, with a pension – and I'm not complaining, because, yes, I get by. But, you know, if you are not rolling in the dough, well it gets mighty difficult getting lucky with the ladies."

_Jesus Christ, when was Eames getting back?_

Johnny Eames was just getting started, "and I'll tell you another thing, it gets very lonely on a cold winter night."

Goren unconsciously rubbed at his left palm, he understood everything Johnny was setting forth, it was painful having to acknowledge that he had so much in common with Alex's father. Shit as if he hadn't already imagined what a life post retirement could look and feel like – it made him feel like chewing on the end of his revolver. But as much as he didn't want to participate in this conversation, Goren suddenly found himself asking one of the many questions he didn't have an answer to, "so, uh, what makes you think that Alex, uh, how do you know that Alex is even interested?"

Johnny Eames head cocked to the side slightly. A surreal moment, as it was an expression Goren had seen Alex wear on numerous occasions.

"Really? You don't see it?"

Goren shifted on Johnny's couch, edging back slightly, drawing both his hands towards his mouth. It's what he did when he was thinking hard, or uncertain to answer with anything but a mumble – not to mention an opportunity to chew on his left thumbnail to assuage his rattled nerves.

"Jesus, man, you're bright as a bulb when it comes to solving crimes," Johnny still couldn't hide the incredulous look on his face. But after five very long seconds, Johnny broke into a hearty laugh, one that almost sent him on a coughing spree he might never recover from, "well, well," Johnny sputtered before catching his breath, "anyway, you're going to have to take my word for it. I've known my girl for forty-five odd years, so of course you know that I've gone through all the highs and lows with her. She may have the reserve of a saint, but I can always tell with her."

In the amount of time that passed between his last statement, Goren was certain he couldn't wedge himself any deeper into Johnny Eames' couch. And just as he tried to turn his head away from Johnny, he found himself looking into a side table that was filled with multiple pictures of Eames in about every stage of her life. Her academy picture took his goddamned breath away. How could any straight man stay away from that? It only helped reinforce in his mind that it must have been quite a struggle for his partner in the academy's majority male environment.

"Well?" Johnny offered.

Goren put up both of his hands in resignation, inwardly hoping that Alex was well on her way.

Johnny Eames shook his head, "truth hits everybody," he muttered, "but honestly, I mean, you should get out of that head of yours and think about how hard this has been on her. I mean, well, let me put it this way, Alex would never have given up the opportunity to be captain of Major Case for anyone else. Damn, I've never seen her so affected by anyone, save Joe maybe. God rest his soul."

Goren knew the routine. As a lapsed Catholic, or rather, as a raised Catholic, he knew all about the use of guilt. Hearing about how Eames gave up her shot to be captain of Major Case pretty much sent his emotional drawbridge all the way up. Fuck that. The drawbridge was up and in a few minutes, he'd have all his armaments out too.

Some three awkward minutes later, Alex walked through the door with a take out box in hand, "Uh, sorry that took so long. Dad, Stu's sure gets a lot of business this time of night. More than I remember."

Alex met Goren's eyes apologetically.

Goren managed a weak grin and started into a stand, eager to get out of there, "Uh, Mr. Eames."

"Thanks sweetie," Johnny winked at his daughter, "Okay, I'll see you Bobby, thanks for stopping by."

"Dad," Alex leaned in to kiss his forehead, "don't forget to use that inhaler too. The pharmacist said if you are using both the syrup and the inhaler you should nip this in the bud, I mean, we want to avoid antibiotics right?"

"Sure thing kiddo, thanks again," Johnny spoke as he cracked open his deli foot-long.

Goren felt a pounding headache as they left Johnny Eames' apartment building, he couldn't believe all the things Johnny had laid before him. Was it true?

Shit. It was too soon, I mean, he needed to do this right. Dr. Gyson didn't think he was ready, and he was pretty sure he was too freaked out to know the truth.

_True love? We all want to believe._

Did he love her? Absolutely. Did he want her? More than anything. He had been craving physical touch and sexual intimacy for so long he was almost afraid for her.

The sorrow that had accumulated from all the losses he'd endured over the past few years, his spiral into deep depression, not to mention the aging and weight gain that he experienced during that time period was enough to keep him painfully deprived of a woman's touch and affection. Like most humans, he was a very sexual person.

Depression, paranoia, fear and self-loathing had kept him in a state where there was little to be aroused about. On the few occasions he found himself turned on, he was quick to let his hands finish himself off in the shower or his bed. But it was pretty embarrassing to say that even those occasions were few and far between.

"Bobby?"

"Uh, yes?"

"Everything okay?"

He nodded and got into the passenger side of the SUV.

"Dad started something, didn't he," Eames groaned as they headed out of Inwood.

"No," Goren deflected, "he's, uh, h-he just cares about you. It's what a father is supposed to do for their child."

Eames sighed and touched his left shoulder, "I know."

When they pulled up to his Brooklyn apartment, Eames touched his left shoulder again, "you shouldn't have picked up the bill, the celebration was supposed to be about you."

He smiled back at her.

"Thanks for hanging out with my Dad too. I, well," Eames paused, "I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

"Goodnight Eames, thanks for the ride."

Rapping his right hand against the side of the door, he flashed her a lopsided grin before heading back towards his apartment entryway. Buoyed by the memory of Gyson granting him his wish, Goren felt like everything was moving in the right direction. But as soon as he sat down in his leather armchair, and thumbed through the mail he didn't pick up on Saturday, (two credit card statements and a utility bill), he mentally and physically came undone.

Today had been an emotional minefield. For one, he'd only found out that Dr. Gyson was going to let him keep his job. Then he opened up his mind to the idea that he was in love with his partner. You know, no more lying to himself.

All of his revelations would have been enough to knock anyone out. But then Johnny Eames had to let the cat out of the bag.

Damn.

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter Four_

Apartment of Robert Goren, Brooklyn, Monday, June 20

* * *

><p>After tossing and turning for most of the night, up to and including his morning shower, Goren's mind was still churning from some of the things Johnny Eames brought up during the prior evening.<p>

The thing about Eames quitting her job, well, it stung like a son-of-a-bitch. There was still a handful of things that _really_ got under his skin, and most of the 'hot spots' were tied to Eames: her abduction, the time he had to lie to her about working undercover, and _of course,_ the fucking fact that she gave up being captain of MCS.

Fuck.

And much like the vic from the second case they'd been assigned since returning to Major Case, when dwelling on his multiple fuck-ups, Goren felt like scrubbing his skin raw. Anger welled in his gut; he was so out of sorts he nearly cut himself shaving.

_You're right, the truth is – there are people that I trust._

_Anyone in particular come to mind?_

_Yeah my partner - she always has my back._

Goren slowed down his breathing: inhale, exhale, inhale and exhale, carefully pulling himself together as he disguised himself in his work attire.

When he thought about it, you know, thought about all the ways he made Eames' life more difficult – thought about the sacrifice, care and love she continued to send his way. Fuck. He cinched his tie tightly, gritting his teeth before loosening it slightly, carefully ensuring that the lines were adjusted with ever such care. Next, was the tie clip, like so – and on and on until he was finally out the door to One Police Plaza.

* * *

><p>Office of Captain Joseph Hannah, One Police Plaza, Monday, June 20<p>

* * *

><p>Goren preferred to sit towards the rear of the room – like during an interrogation – a place where he could observe things best.<p>

Captain Hannah shuffled a few files on his desktop before clearing his throat, "busy morning."

Eames nodded, Hannah's phone had buzzed two times during their five minute weekly briefing.

Goren looked at his shoes and rubbed his palms together as Eames handed Hannah a final report regarding the homicide at the bank on Beaver Street.

Hannah's eyes quickly skimmed over the report, "took it from you, eh?"

Eames nodded before handing over the final written report on the Gaffney homicides.

"Good work detectives," Hannah grinned, "I do like expediency. It's easy to see why you excelled so many years at Major Case, you certainly dot your i's and cross your t's," Hannah momentarily turned his gaze towards Goren, "I'm guessing that your senior partner has worked hard to train you so well."

Goren afforded Hannah a smirk, although he was less than amused each time Hannah decided to push the point that he was privy to knowledge of the youthful, cocky and inexperienced academy version of Robert Goren.

"Well, I'm happy to report that a Grand Jury indicted Korman and Porter. In addition, I think that," Hannah paused as he thumbed through the final report on the Gaffney Homicide and double checked his electronic calendar, "yup, Danielle Magee is in arraignment court today. Well with all that in order, I gather that neither of you are have any court appearances for this coming week, therefore," Hannah paused again before pulling a new folder off his desk, "I've got a hot one, with some diplomacy involved."

Goren felt a spike of anger shoot through his core when he noticed Hannah look specifically at Eames as he spoke the word diplomacy.

"Indiana police might already be on their way over."

Eames frowned, "an interstate serial homicide?"

"Possibly," Hannah murmured handing her the file, "the 2-7 got a body late last week and I think, however, I'm not certain - but according to the ME, well yes, there might just be a correlation."

"Well then, we'll hop to it," Eames accepted the file and started to rise, Goren followed suit.

"Oh, and detective Eames?"

Eames stopped mid-turn.

"Can I have an extra minute of your time?"

"Captain?"

Goren edged out of his seat and left the captain's office closing the door behind him. He didn't mean to presume, call it paranoia, but he had a pretty good idea that his welfare was being discussed.

* * *

><p>Office of Captain Anita Van Buren, 27th Precinct, Monday, June 20<p>

* * *

><p>Goren watched as the captain of the 2-7 did a once over through the file. He remembered Van Buren from a case he worked with Eames years ago, well before his life became so goddamned complex. In what seemed all to familiar, Van Buren looked like she'd aged significantly over the past few years too. He couldn't help but notice that she wore a wig, a well-crafted wig, but easy for him to discern. <em>"Cancer?"<em> he wondered, before his eyes roamed to the engagement ring on her left finger.

_True love?_

_I want to believe. Make me believe._

"Well," Van Buren interrupted his thoughts handing Eames the file, "it's all yours, you can check in with Detectives Lupo and Bernard for the specifics."

"Thank you Captain," Eames nodded her head slightly.

"Oh no," Van Buren replied pushing up her reading glasses, "thank you. It's one more off my plate."

Van Buren edged around her desk, opened her door and pointed to a desk parallel to their line of site, "Detective Cyrus Lupo is the gentleman straight ahead with the dark, curly hair."

Goren couldn't help but note that the precinct certainly had less of an air than Major Case. The captain's office was cramped and the desk had been running over with paperwork - the desk of Cyrus Lupo's was no different. A majority of the detectives on the floor were wearing cheap designer knock-off suits and beat-up work shoes. Eames always confirmed what he knew to be true. Just look at a person's shoes for a quick read of their financial status. Civil servants were not high on the food chain, especially not when it came to living in one of the most expensive areas in the US.

"How can I help you," Lupo inquired, his eyes running over the detectives, "uh, you can take my partner's seat," he motioned loosely at Eames, "he's caught up in a pre-trial motion."

Eames smiled, "thank you detective. We're with Major Case, this is detective Goren and I'm detective Eames," she spoke while shaking his hand, "maybe you could help us find an area where we could all sit down and talk about one of the cases you've been investigating – a case my captain has asked me to take the lead on."

Lupo's eyebrows raised, "Oh, sure," he walked them over to a generic unmarked room where there was just enough room for them to all sit down, complete with a heavily coffee stained table to throw the file on.

"The captain mentioned you'd be coming by this afternoon," Lupo spoke slowly as he flipped through the file, pausing to hand them the crime scene photographs.

Goren noted that the detective probably owned a dog with white hair, that and the detective didn't like looking at the rather gruesome images.

"Floater," Goren muttered under his breath. Eames face twinged slightly as he handed her the photo.

"Yeah," Lupo shook his head, "really uh, really not a pretty sight. We thought SVU might be by considering the final report indicated rape. The uh, well, the mutilation of her eyes, breasts and vaginal area were all, thank god, post-mortem. But there are other indications that she was tortured while she was still alive – bound, blindfolded and gagged. And as you probably know, the um, the unique type of wounds, combined with the profile of the victim suggest she might be one of many. I'm assuming that's why they sent you guys over."

"Where and when was the body discovered?" Eames nodded, squinting as she looked at yet another gruesome image.

"Last Friday evening," Lupo frowned again visibly as Goren fingered another photo, "near Harlem, you know, the pier near West 135th Street.

Goren nodded, "let's go see if Rodger's still has our body."

"Good luck detectives," Lupo stood up to show them out of the the 2-7.

Goren was in the process of opening his passenger side door when he heard her answer her cell.

"Eames," she nodded, "okay, we'll be there."

Goren looked to her for clarification.

"The detectives from Indiana are here. Hannah wants us to get into diplomatic gear."

He snorted, before taking the case file from Eames. He knew he'd better start dissecting the file and fast – they had little time to pull things together for the meeting with the mid-western detectives.

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter Five_

One Police Plaza, Monday, June 20

* * *

><p>In a superficial way, the detectives from Indiana were everything Goren had envisioned: plain-clothed with well worn classic patrolmen-style dress shoes. On the other hand, senior detective Joe Turnbull and junior detective Daniel Buckley, were sharper and better prepared than Goren initially gave them credit for.<p>

It did make sense, however, with the economy and tight police budgets in mind, travel would not be afforded to just any detective team.

At first, as the four detectives sat down in a conference room to go over the case, they made brief introductions and shared some coffee and pastries from the café on the main floor.

Within a heartbeat, Goren could sense that the senior detective, who was roughly Goren's age, was slightly dubious about working on par with a female senior detective.

Sadly, Turnbull's behavior was common practice in the fraternal order of the police. Goren was certain that Eames was more than capable of dealing with such subtle treatment, but he almost always needed to remind himself that it wasn't his job to fight her battles, Eames knew how to carry herself far better than he did in political settings.

Turnbull flipped through the case file, passing off the photos and reports he viewed to his junior partner, "yup, this definitely looks like our boy."

The younger junior detective, Buckley, seemed like a better study, more cerebral than his older partner, not to mention uniquely attractive by general standards, "the mutilation to the victim's eyes is markedly similar to the wounds observed on our victims. Like the use of a scalpel or sharp pairing knife – all cleanly executed post-mortem."

Goren nostril's flared as he flipped through the files Turnbull provided of prior victims. The similarities were on point, the skill the killer used to carve out his vic's eyes was done in a very meticulous manner, "he felt, uh, he felt uncomfortable carving out the more obvious trophies, uh, and even though the killer clearly must have, uh, understood that his vic was dead, it's, you know, as if he didn't want her to see him take his trophies. There uh, there was a kind of," Goren looked up at Eames, "a kind of reverence."

Turnbull couldn't disguise the look of disgust that took over his face, "that's quite a thought, I sure hope you don't express that kind of insight to the victim's parents."

"We all have our own styles," Buckley gently inserted, "It's definitely an interesting observation."

"We were on our way to the medical examiner's to get a look at the body," Eames suggested, "perhaps you would like to join us and then grab some lunch?"

Goren's eyebrows betrayed his calm exterior, did Eames just invite tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum to the ME's office?

Turnbull smiled, "I've been to New York, but Buckley here is just itching to get another view of the city."

"First time to the Big Apple, huh?" Eames looked in Goren's direction to get a quick read, "where should we take them for lunch?"

_How about the hot dog stand outside the morgue? _

Eames frowned at Goren's lack of response, "Times Square is always a big hit."

"That would be very, very acceptable detective Eames." Buckly grinned – and goddamned if he didn't have perfect teeth to go with all that fucking non-graying mane.

At the end of the day, Eames offered to drop Goren off at his apartment. They drove more than five minutes in silence. Much to Goren's dismay, they had spent a good portion of their day with the Indiana detectives - up to and including sharing dinner before watching a taxi take the two detective to La Guardia.

"So, it's official," Eames rubbed her taunt tummy just above her shield.

_Yeah, that you had a great time chatting up the junior detective from Indiana?  
><em>

"What's that?" Goren spoke softly.

"I ate way to much pizza," Eames groaned, "it's going to give me heartburn."

Juvenile as it was, Goren's jealousy got the best of him. Indeed, shameful as it was, he was satisfied by the fact that she was feeling a touch uncomfortable.

"And," Eames continued (_a little too merrily)_ while merging onto the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, "I think Hannah will get back to us with confirmation before we get to your place."

Indeed, a trip to the Indianapolis 'burbs was not on the top of his life goals list, however, a chance to get inside the back story of the killer was going to be necessary if they planned on stopping the murders.

Pulling up to his apartment, Eames phone beeped. Her eyes lit up in surprise, "Oh."

Goren shook his head, "a send off?"

"I thought it was going to be Hannah approving our trip to Indianapolis."

Goren sighed, "so now the city mouse is going to visit the country mouse."

Eames laughed a little to quickly, "if what you said wasn't so clever!"

Goren held his open palm up in mock gesture, as if he were requesting to see the text message.

"You," Eames punctuated with her right pointer finger, "need to cool your jets."

"What?" Goren grumbled, "I'm only noting, you now, he's like, what? You think he's even forty?"

"And just what is it you _are_ noting?" Eames bristled.

"Let me know if we get approval," Goren piled out of the passenger side door taking his leather binder, mehanical pencils and two worn books that were the size of dictionaries, "if not, uh, I'll see you tomorrow."

Eames squinted slightly, "_Psychopathy, Perversion, and Lust Homicide_ and _Recognizing the Mental Disorders That Power Serial Killers._ Those look like light reading."

"Thanks for the lift," Goren gently rapped the hood of the police issue, pausing to look at her – to gauge if he'd been too – fuck, you know: difficult, assholish, inappropriate, telling? The list went on and on.

He leaned in slightly, scratching at the back of his head.

Her eyes forgave him, that and a fleeting smile.

"I'll call you as soon as I know."

"Night, Eames."

He walked up to his apartment, grabbed his mail, (two advertisement flyers and a credit card offer), before squaring himself at his desk: organizing notes, images, tagging a map with all discovered bodies, and wedging post-it notes between multiple pages of the two books he'd carried back home.

Goren was so engrossed with an enumerated list of symptoms that he almost didn't hear his phone ring.

"Goren."

"Hey, it's me. I wanted to let you know that we got the approval."

"Oh, okay."

"Are you reading right now? You seem a little hazy."

"No," he lied, finally closing the book on his hand, letting his right fingers play bookmark, "uh, w-when do we head out?"

"I figured I'd create a generic time-frame tonight, Google map out the key areas we'll need to hit and go from there. Can we be mobilized to leave tomorrow?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Alright then," Eames paused, "I guess be ready to leave, and I'll call you once I book the tickets."

"I'll be ready, call me whenever. I'll be up."

"I can only guess what you are reading right now."

"Talk to you soon Eames."

And once he hung up, he opened the book back to the enumerated list, troubled by the fact that, as usual, he shared some qualities of a sociopath: contemptuous of those who seek to understand them, secretive, paranoid, and incapable of real human attachment to another . . .

He settled uncomfortably back into his desk chair, bothered by what he read and still wishing he could steal a peek at the text message detective Buckley sent Eames early today.

Deep inside his heart, he wanted to move on badly, he wanted to prove to himself that he was in fact capable of real human attachment to another. Eames would argue that in fact, he was able to commit. She'd reminded him on many occasion that he was very committed to his mother, and at times, his brother.

But Goren knew better. Committed to their care? Yes. Attached? Hardly, he'd been careful not to attach. In order to cope with his mother's mental illness, it was an uncomfortable lesson he had been forced to learn at an early age.

That, and then there was the other minor factor one would come to once they added genetics to the equation. His biological father had been a sociopath. A concept that was so frightening and painful, Goren had yet to share the detail with Dr. Gyson.

If only he could return to the same state of mind he was in before it had all become so bloody complex. To a time that existed before he'd let Eames down - to a place where he could start all over again. Sadly, before he could immerse himself into that fantasy, _a fantasy he deeply longed for_, his heart knew what had to happen first.

_There's only one way back there, and it starts with the truth._

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>


	6. Chapter 6

_Okay, okay, I understand USA officially killed CI today. I'm going through all the stages. Shock, and now, I believe anger. _Will somebody please dial 9-1-1? Call Goren and Eames, there's been an awful murder. _ _

_Alright, back to writing (grumble grumble grumble). _

* * *

><p><em>Chapter Six<em>

La Guardia Airport, Tuesday June 21

* * *

><p>At first there was the gradual, yet disorienting signs that a headache was approaching. What followed shortly, less than ten minutes after he met Eames at an Au Bon Pain, was the unpleasant sensation that his stomach felt a touch unsettled too.<p>

Was he becoming extra paranoid in his old age, or was Eames dolled up more than usual?

"I paid a little more for these tickets," Eames detailed as she handed him his boarding pass, "but the upside is that you only have to pay a minimum fee if you need to make changes on the return trip."

Goren groaned, Eames _did_ have more make-up on than usual. She was wearing her gold cross necklace, which was typical, but she was also wearing this cute hair-pin, one that made her look at least five years younger. He was going to have to put a stop to this, whatever it was, and quickly. He was still Eames' friend - and damned if he didn't know a few things about how long-distance relationships don't work.

He also disapproved of the fact that she was sporting a style that would be better suited on a younger woman. I mean, didn't she know she was naturally beautiful? Fuck. He didn't like where this was going at all.

Eames was too distracted to notice the way he was checking her out, too busy going over the itinerary, humming in the damned cutest way between sips of coffee. Then without warning, she caught him, and before he could recover, he was on the receiving end of the evil eye.

"What?"

"N-nothing," Goren carefully placed his leather binder on the table in front of him and tried to play dumb.

Eames frowned, refusing to lose any ground.

"You" Goren found himself pinned by her gaze, "you never wear a hair-pin."

"So, is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"It's different," Goren muttered, opening his leather binder while pulling a mechanical pencil from the inside pocket, "just different."

Goren fingered to the back section of his binder where he kept his calendar. Antiquated though it might seem, he preferred not having to type in entries and synch them to any electronic devices. He was in the process of under-lining his ten-o-clock appointment with Dr. Gyson on July 3rd when Eames suddenly stood up from her seat to answer her phone.

He was doing everything in his power to look busy, but his ears were on high alert – enough to hear the first part of the conversation. He could already tell by her body language, not to mention her desire to leave the table, that she had just received a call from detective Buckley.

"Oh hi, yes, yes, we'll be in today, um, that's right. 12:33 pm eastern time, yes, a layover in Milwaukee…"

He lost the rest of the conversation as she walked away from him down the tarmac. He busied himself by doodling mindlessly around this July 3rd entry. He was just coming to understand how much he really needed to make his appointment with Dr. Gyson. There were so many questions to ask, he could only hope the sessions would prove more fruitful now that he felt confident that Gyson wasn't evaluating him with regards to whether or not he could keep his job.

An hour later they were on board flight 275, some thirty thousand feet above the earth. They'd flown together a handful of times, usually with a suspect between them. Now, on both trips, they'd probably be sitting side by side like mutual friends, lovers or spouses. The very thought of being able to share something with Eames beyond Major Case, filled him with a kind of serenity. He sighed and tried not to be overcome by his feelings for her. At this very second, she was merely inches away, the scent of her shampoo and conditioner filling his nose. He was aware of his pulse, strong and slow, his breath strangely even as a warmth spread through his body. It was if his head cleared, and suddenly he was able to power through the last few chapters in _Psychopathy, Perversion, and Lust Homicide._

After a brief layover in Milwaukee, they were on the ground at Indianapolis International. It was like they had walked from one mall-like transportation hub to the next. From one Au Bon Pain to a Starbucks. And then, suddenly, his headache came back in the form of the ridiculously handsome detective Buckley.

"You made it detectives," Buckley grinned broadly, and although he'd addressed both of them, it was clear he was only smiling for her, "welcome to Indianapolis."

Goren nodded politely, his hands wringing slightly behind his back.

"You didn't have to – urm, we could have taken a taxi," Eames sputtered, filing through her briefcase for her list of contacts and addresses.

"It really wasn't a big deal," Buckley insisted pointing them both towards the parking garage.

_I bet. _

Then there was the trip to the precinct, which provided access to copies of much needed files and a quiet room where telephone call confirmations could be made. And of course, except for bathroom breaks, Goren never let Eames out of his sight. An oh, how she made heads turn on the precinct floor. _C'mon people, an Italian and Irish American detective team from New York. Now what is so shocking about that?_

And after what seemed to stretch on forever, Buckley was finally able to let go of Eames so that they could get to all the work they needed to get done before heading back to NYC. Buckley was also kind enough to set them up with an old-school police issue lender transport.

"Wow," Eames laughed, re-adjusting the rearview mirror, "maybe you'll need to drive – or ride in the back seat."

She was right. The old Impala didn't leave much leg-room in front, as the front seat was a single unit that moved as such.

"I'll drive," he offered, coming back round to the driver's side, "huh, V8 engine and power steering," he noted as put the car in reverse, "and without all that wonderful backup traffic around the tunnels, we'll be accelerating fast before you know it . . ."

"See if the AC is working first," Eames grumbled, "I was freezing on that last plane, but about right now, I can sure feel the difference in humidity."

* * *

><p>Home of Shirley Kellogg, 1038 Park Meadow Drive, Tuesday June 21<p>

* * *

><p>Their initial stop was to conduct a routine interview with Shirley Kellogg, mother to the first victim, Amanda Kellogg.<p>

On first impressions, Shirley was a nice enough single mother, one whose home had its share of cats and knick-knacks.

It had been nearly two years since Shirley lost her only child, and that telling look of sorrow emanated from her eyes. No matter how many distraught loved ones Goren interviewed, it was always shocking to look into an empty, hollow stare, a.k.a, pure sadness: the kind of sorrow that ages the shit out of you – deep bags under your eyes, graying hair, complete with a puffy, swollen, ashen appearance. Fuck. Admittedly, he'd been there. And even now as he was clawing his way back to health, he still hadn't been able to drop all the pounds. The grey was there to stay – yet his new improved diet, water and exercise had put an end to his former pale façade.

"We are so sorry for your loss Mrs. Kellogg," Eames repeated a second time.

"It's, you know," Shirley sighed, cradling a photo of her daughter, "it's something I think about every day."

"Amanda," Goren cleared his throat, "uh, she wasn't like some of the other, uh, victims. She didn't participate in sports?"

"Yes," Shirley smiled, but it was clear to see that she was holding back tears, "she was never a very coordinated girl, kind of bookish I guess. She excelled in English and creative writing. That's how she got into yearbook and writing for the school's newspaper.

"That can be time consuming, uh," Goren scratched the back of his head, "I dated a girl in high school that was on yearbook, she uh, you know, she had to stay late, e-especially around deadlines."

Shirley nodded, a cat jumped off her lap and headed towards him.

"Um," Eames' brow furrowed as she watched the cat approach him, Goren knew full well that Eames didn't like felines, "were there any other school or extra-curricular activities Amanda was involved in? Did she have a boyfriend?"

Shirley shook her head, "no, she was very a very, simple kid, she loved cats, horses, books and she had a few favorite TV shows. Of course, being involved with the paper and yearbook, she had to go to different school events, but she was, an observer, quiet, sweet –"

Quickly Goren mobilized to comfort Shirley as the tears started to stream down her face.

"It's okay," he whispered softly, "we can take a break."

And after another hour passed, after they'd collected most of their important questions, they left the Kellogg house to take a look at Amanda's former school - which wasn't that far from the site where the local police found Amanda Kellogg's body.

"We need to determine whether or not this was really the first vic. I mean, anything reported, you know, like a rape-bondage or uh, a girl perhaps who didn't report a non-consensual situation, uh, during at least a six month period before Amanda Kellogg went missing."

Eames nodded, "serial killers and rapists usually leave a preliminary trail, that and the first vic is usually close to home base."

Goren rubbed at his mouth with his left hand, "my guess is that we are pretty close to home base," he pointed towards the signage outside of South Lowell High.

"Home of the Mustangs," Eames pointed out.

After a tour of the administrative wing and several interviews later, Goren and Eames checked into their hotel. After ordering room service, they found themselves knee deep in a stack of files, news-clippings and bureaucratic paperwork, including lists of all employees who worked for the school district during the time of Amanda's murder. Goren had already constructed a make-shift map on the wall, photos and names of all those they'd met an interviewed during the day.

Eames was running names through her computer data-base, "there are so many sketchy characters in this system. Why did the school district think it was okay to hire this guy – I mean, he has a history of getting in trouble with underage girls!"

Goren shook his head, "but I don't think we are looking for that kind of profile. Our killer would have little prior experience with women. He was uh, s-sexually frustrated, but, uh, felt unable to act out his sexual fantasies in the way that he needed without the aid of uh, restraints."

Eames cell phone interrupted the rest of Goren's train of thought.

"Eames," she answered, before her eyebrows raised slightly, "Oh, hi Daniel."

_What we are now on a first name basis?_

"Yes, thanks," Eames turned slightly away from Goren, "yes, it all went very well today."

Goren sighed and stood up to go to the adjoining room, the room they were both in now was technically his room, but he wanted Eames to know that she could have personal space. Clearly, this conversation would have little to do with him.

"Oh no, I've already eaten, I mean we've already eaten, but thank you."

_He doesn't care if I've already eaten Eames, he wants to know if you'll go hang out with him. _

"And yes, we have a pretty busy schedule tomorrow too, we could very well finish up, um, provided there aren't any major hang-ups."

_That's right Eames. Tell him you are going back to NYC where you belong. _

Goren crossed through the door into Eames' room. He mentally noted that she'd already unpacked what little she brought, and had even hung up her outfit for tomorrow. He could hear her muffled voice talking cheerfully in the background. When he walked back towards the adjoining room door his ear caught more of the conversation.

"Yeah, eleven years now we've been partners. Yes, a long time," Eames laughed, "I can see how you'd think that."

_Think what?_

"Okay, okay, well, we'll see if time allows for it tomorrow. I would really enjoy that."

_This can't be good._

"Okay. Thanks! Bye."

Eames hung up, smiling strangely at her cell as she held it in her right palm.

"You didn't have to hide out in my room," Eames smirked.

"Buckley, Eames. He has it for you."

"You think?"

Goren just nodded in confirmation and pinched his brow, as if this could stop the next impending headache, "he's, uh, you know a puppy dog and, you have to know ahead of time that, uh, you are going to break his small-town heart."

Eames sighed, "I think that you are making this out to be more than it really is."

He turned away, he knew better. He'd known for years what effect Eames had on boys. Lewis was one of her first victims, and it was safe to say that there were still multiple detectives on the eleventh floor alone who would love to take her for a test drive. Shit. He was among the many.

But while all those poor fools were lusting after her, they didn't have a clue as to what it meant to love her. They might love her after a while, but he had what none of those suckers had. And for all those days they'd worked side by side, he'd loved her for more than nine years. Lived with her at the office, worried about her, fought with her, flew on fucking planes with her.

"He's not the one," Goren spoke softly, so quiet, he wasn't exactly sure if he'd said it his head, or if it had actually come out of his mouth.

Eames raised both her eyebrows, demanding an explanation.

"You love New York too much. I mean, what would you do without your complex little city, a-all the sights, sounds, people, murders, and you know, all of its, uh, adorable idiosyncrasies."

Eames sat back in her chair, deep in thought, "I guess I probably would get a little bored here. But life in the city has been hard - and you know as well as I, that it's unbelievably expensive. I'll be working long after I'm eligible for social security," Eames turned around in her seat and turned her head towards the open window, "And it's so quiet here. Listen Bobby, you can even hear the crickets outside. It's almost magical."

And when Eames even entertained a thought outside of his world, he felt a little scared inside, not to mention instantly sad. In reality, could he really make her happy? I mean, they weren't that far away from rural living. Couldn't one hear crickets in Upstate New York?

He sat back down across from her and opened his binder. There was five more days until he was to have his meeting with Dr. Gyson. The desire he felt to delve down into some of his deepest fears was starting to make him anxious.

He needed to put himself together quickly, because he was starting to trust himself less and less everyday.

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter Seven_

American Inn Suites, 17650 US Highway 31, Tuesday June 21

* * *

><p>"C'mon," Goren gently chided, "you look tired," he waggled his finger towards the adjoining room door, "you should go."<p>

"And what," Eames stifled a yawn, "you're going to try to finish that book tonight?"

"I won't," he assured, "I just need to get through a couple more things."

"Don't forget you'll be driving tomorrow," Eames slowly got up from the table, her eyes still glued to her laptop, right finger scrolling downwards, "wait."

He edged over towards her, just enough to be able to read her screen.

"This guy," Eames tapped her screen, "not only is he the right age, and employed at the right high school, but he also left the school," he watched as her eyes scrolled quickly through the spreadsheet, "bingo! He left the school two months ago. His date of hire would fit with the timeline too."

"Dwyer, Miles R." Goren absorbed the info, "Caucasian, mid-thirties, hmmm."

"You know why I didn't find him during the original search?"

He shook his head.

"Because of this little drop-down menu," Eames detailed, "I had selected educators, coaches and administrators, but our friend Miles is a janitor for South Lowell high. He transferred from a middle school in the same district one year before Amanda's murder. Apparently janitors don't fall under that particular category."

"And uh - they sure have access to all the school's resources, not to mention plenty of time to scope out the perfect victim."

Eames left eyebrow arched, "well, I guess we'll have to find out what our boy Dwyer's been up too."

"I have a feeling that if we're on the right trail," Goren ran his right thumb over the fresh stubble under his lip, "he's moved northeast, to put some distance between himself and the attention he'd be drawing to himself in this small community."

Eames may have just given them the break they needed.

Indeed, Goren was lost in thought when he heard Eames have one of those epic yawns, the kind that are truly impossible to cover up, "c'mon detective, go on, get to bed already."

Eames laughed, closing her computer while heading towards her room, "you just want me out of here so you can curl up with that book, interruption free."

_Curling up with a book on serial killers? Please Eames, instead of curling up with you?_

"Go on already," he feigned irritation, "go listen to your crickets."

He distracted himself briefly by pretending to take notes in his binder, careful not to let her know that he was very, very fucking aware of the fact that they were both going to be sleeping less than fifteen feet away from one another. All that separated them was one adjoining door, a door that didn't really lock for that matter. Afterall, a suite could save the department money: the price of one room for two separate sleeping areas and the bonus of having a little mock kitchen attached.

A half-hour zoomed by and he was starting to fade. The old Goren could have stayed up half the night without repercussions, the new Goren? Well, yes, he was slowing down in some aspects.

If he had been asleep, he might have missed the fact that Eames was clearly having a conversation on the phone. And one that was definitely getting her worked up. He couldn't hear the gist of it, but he was fighting every urge to run over to the door and listen in. Of course, that was a risky move, and one he wasn't willing to take. At this point, he was Eames' partner, nothing more. His behavior towards her should be nothing but professional, and that was exactly how he was going to treat the situation.

In the end, his patience paid off. He heard her knock lightly on the door.

"Eames?"

"Can I use the kitchen area?" she inquired politely.

"Of course," he answered, carefully looking back down at his book when she entered, acting casual, as if he'd not heard anything through the closed door.

"Still up, huh?" Eames walked right past him towards the kitchen area, and he had to do everything in his power to ignore her casual attire. Not pajamas per se, but for the first time he was getting a look into what she wore to bed: a grey tank top and some of those cotton workout pants, solid grey, like the ones the Manhattan ladies wore to a yoga or pilates class. And while her outfit wasn't particularly sexy by cultural standards, he would certainly never complain about seeing her in this rather informal way.

He nodded slowly, inquiring, "you too?" Again, being very careful not to stare or make her feel at all self-conscious. He glanced up now and again, only to observe her pulling a water bottle out of the mini-fridge.

Eames sighed, "family," and plopped down on the loveseat adjacent to the table and chairs. Still shaking her head, Eames explained her quandary, "my dad, um, well - he landed himself in the hospital tonight. He probably wasn't using his prescriptions nor taking care of himself properly, and now, as one might expect, they are worried he's developing pneumonia."

Goren sat up straight and set down his book, "Eames, uh, if you need to uh – well uh, you got the tickets that you can change the return date, and - "

"My sister was thinking the same thing," Eames glowered, "she thinks that because I don't have kids that I can drop things at a single notice, you know, that I'm in charge of dad. My kid brother is outta the state right now and," Eames raised both of her hands, palms open, in frustration, "Tada! I'm out of state this time too."

"Liz thinks I put this job before everything else," Eames took a sip of water and sighed again.

Goren sat back and smiled softly, he wanted her to feel his support.

After several seconds passed, he watched as her expression softened, and then with some hesitation, she asked for his opinion, "do you think, I mean, what would you do?"

It was more of an intimate question than he'd been expecting, he suddenly found himself caught of guard and uncertain on how to answer her question.

"Bobby, am I losing my perspective?"

And then he understood, she was asking him not as a co-worker, but as a good friend.

"I-uh," Goren pondered heavily, "I would have gone for my mother, uh, she could have asked for anything you know, b-because it was something I felt I owed her, maybe - probably guilt. But a different kind of guilt I think."

Eames rubbed her bottom lip, "I'm torn, I mean, physically he's going to be fine."

"Well, for what it's worth," Goren leaned back in his chair and scratched the back of his head, "you know I've got it covered here, I can run our leads and check up on Dwyer."

"I know you'd be just fine without me," Eames wore a smile on her face, but it looked slightly strained, "Anyway, I wouldn't be able to fly out until tomorrow. I guess this will give me a chance to sleep on it."

She sighed again, getting up from the love seat, water bottle in hand, "thank you, Bobby."

"It will all work out," Goren reassured, "goodnight Alex."

She paused soon after the words left his mouth, turning slightly to her left when she reached the door, right hand resting on the handle.

And there she was, juxtaposed between the doorframe: simple, beautiful and just, you know, kind of waiting for him. It was deja-vu from the day she picked him up after his shrink appointment: the same body language, the hesitation, the hopeful eyes.

And there was something about seeing her in this way, perhaps it was the repetitive action, or then again maybe it was due to this particular setting. Whatever the reason, it just kind of came to him: that maybe what Johnny Eames had spoken to him last Sunday night, was not just a self-serving lie – maybe all along, Eames had been waiting for him to give her a sign. To say something, or make the first move.

_Shit Eames, I can't. Please know that I would do anything for you - but you already know that, don't you? I just need a little time to fix myself, and then I'll be so ready for you. It will all work out. _

She remained in front of the doorframe, as if she were studying him, waiting, still waiting. Then, as if to put him out of his misery, she flashed him a comforting smile, "Goodnight Bobby," before closing the door quietly behind her.

And he nearly gasped out loud, realizing that all along, he'd been holding his breath.

* * *

><p>US Highway 31, Wednesday June 22<p>

* * *

><p>Eames was quiet on the drive to South Lowell. She'd been extra quiet all morning for that matter, not to mention, non-specific in terms of what was going on with her father. Clearly though, she'd decided to stay.<p>

Goren's mind drifted to their conversation last night. It had been a small breakthrough for them, causing him to toss and turn longer than he'd like to admit. The breakthrough being that Eames almost never brought family drama to work, and when it came to personal matters, she hardly ever shared nor asked for his advice.

Was this a sign? Was Eames trying to initiate a new kind of connection with him? Was this the tip of the iceberg?

While he wrestled for the answers in his head, he managed to quiet his mind with a thought he almost never let himself fixate on. Well, that wasn't true, he thought about it quite a bit, but he almost never imagined that it could in fact be a real possibility. Namely, what would it be like when they first slept together? The possibilities were endless, and as soon as he imagined her hands brushing past his layer of clothing, he knew that this train of thought would only lead to something that could definitely put him to sleep.

"Bobby, I think you missed the turn."

"Huh? Oh, I'll turn around at the Chevron."

Eames studied her GPS phone app, "my bad, I wasn't paying attention either."

_Great, so they were both distracted this morning._

Some fifteen minutes later, they were on track peppering the South Lowell administration crew with questions regarding former employee Miles Dwyer.

"Freddie Roberts probably worked with him more than anyone else. Fred is the senior groundskeeper, been with the school some twenty-eight years. From what I know, though, Miles seemed nice enough. I mean, he was pretty quiet, but no problems really. His work record shows that he was pretty reliable. No lodged complaints either."

Eames nodded, "Is Freddie on campus today?

"Sure," administrative assistant Barb Klenk picked up a walkie-talkie and contacted the senior groundskeeper.

Next, they found themselves walking past two well-groomed playing fields to two large pre-manufactured sheds. Freddie Roberts was sitting inside the first shed tinkering with an office chair.

"Damn things cost and arm and a leg," Freddie shook his head, "but the wheels don't seem to last more than a school year."

Goren nodded before exploring the rather spacious shed.

"This is detective Goren, and I'm detective Eames. We have some questions about former employee, Miles Dwyer."

"Miles?"

"He left just before the end of the school year," Goren muttered, moving methodically through the shed, "kind of odd, really."

Roberts blinked, uncertain of what to do with the hulking detective peculiar antics.

"Hey don't touch that, uh, it's really on its last leg," Roberts couldn't disguise the agitation in his voice, as Goren fingered a rather antique industrial size pencil sharpener.

"Look," Roberts sat down, "Miles said he had business, family stuff, and I wasn't one to pry."

"Admin told us you've worked with Miles for over five years," Eames pushed, "and I don't know about you, but that's a long time to be working with someone - certainly enough time to get to know a few snippets about that co-worker's background."

"These, uh, these lockers," Goren slapped his open palm against the metal surface for effect, "are these for employee use?"

"Uh, yes," Roberts answered before turning towards Eames, "but, Ms. Eames, you see, we have a different way than the big city, personal business is personal."

"Five locks," Goren pounded on the locker unit again, "Eames, l believe there are only four employees currently under Mr. Roberts supervision, and based on the amount of resumes the admin is dealing with, I'm pretty sure this one, with the MD initials and all," Goren chuckled heartily, "well, yes, pretty much perks my intellectual curiosity."

Eames eyes twinkled, "I mean, if we needed to make a big deal about this, I suppose we could."

Ten minutes later, after Roberts was able to find the spare key, Goren sifted through Dwyer's locker contents while Eames continued to ask Roberts questions about his former employee. Including the obvious: why Dwyer, if no longer employed, still had a lock and contents on the South Lowell property?

For the most part, the contents seemed less than interesting; save an extra-curricular activities printout for the Spring 2011 school year and a single key – one that looked like it might open a medium sized metal chest or fire or safe box.

Goren held the key up from its center hole by the tip of his mechanical pencil, "Is this school issue?"

Roberts frowned and walked several paces towards Goren before he inspected the key, "nope, never seen it before."

"Gloves?" Goren raised his left eyebrow at Eames.

Eames reached into her back pocket to pull out a pair of latex gloves. Once she'd pulled her gloves on, Goren handed her the key, "uh, can you peel off the tape that's obscuring the face?"

And like a pro, Eames discerned where the edge of the tape overlapped, quickly removing it in order to reveal the brand name, "Sentry, Goren – we're looking for a Sentry brand lock box."

"So?" Goren waved his right hand in the air, "there are no Sentry brand storage containers on site?"

"No sir," Roberts shook his head, "not to my knowledge."

"Well," Eames said, "forensics will be able to find out who's been handling this key, and," she went over to the locker in order to help bag evidence for her non-gloved partner, "I think it's safe to say that Mr. Roberts is going to be extra helpful with answering any additional questions, because I'm sure he's familiar with the concept of obstruction of justice."

"Don't forget aiding and abetting," Goren grinned before handing Roberts his business card, "if you think of anything."

* * *

><p>Goren's mind was in overdrive, the trail was suddenly a lot hotter than they'd originally expected. Heart pounding, legs pumping, he left Eames in his wake as he bee-lined for their police issue, "you've got the address?"<p>

"And my handy dandy GPS app," Eames smiled as she waved her phone at him.

And with that, they were off to catch a killer.

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>


	8. Chapter 8

_Chapter Eight_

On route to Miles R. Dwyer's apartment, Wednesday, June 21

* * *

><p>It was strange being in the driver's seat.<p>

Goren had always been happy to relinquish driving duties to Eames. And while they never discussed it specifically, he gathered that she seemed to enjoy driving. Hell, she was pretty good at it too. Just try backing an SUV into a parking spot on the left hand side of a one-way street in the middle of Friday afternoon rush hour in Manhattan. A spot, mind you, that looked like it was reserved for a Vespa. Eames would squint her eyes and say, "watch this, I'll do it with my eyes closed," in the most deadpan of tones. So over the years, they got use to climbing into the driver and passenger seat sides, falling comfortably into their particular roles.

But now, in the Impala and an alien environment with near traffic-free straightaways, Goren was rather enjoying sitting behind the wheel.

And Eames, well Eames was going full steam ahead from the passenger side.

"That's right," Eames assured Captain Hannah via long distance, "we're on route. Hopefully, Dwyer's last place of residence will prove to be a field day for CSI."

Then, without so much as a hitch, Eames pressed the mute button on her cell and turned towards him, "first left after the light, then a right on Pine."

Ever since they'd left South Lowell High, Eames was in serious multi-task mode: she made calls to both MCS and their Indiana police contacts to bring them up to date on their new person of interest. In the end, sharing and receiving key information about Dwyer could make or break their case. As usual, timing was everything.

"Nothing official from the DMV," Eames typed the updates on her laptop during her brief with Hannah, "no surprise there, who registers their car after a month? I thought we'd nab Dwyer with financials or find him on the electronic grid for sure," Eames muttered, her fingers flying over the keyboard. Goren wondered at Eames ability to keep everything in order. Earpiece in her right ear, laptop on her lap, "alright, yep, that sounds good. If nothing else, we'll be flying back late tonight. Thank you, captain. Okay, bye."

"Cash only?" Goren mused, "being single with a big secret, cash sounds like the right MO. H-he probably withdrew a healthy sum from his account before he made his trek northeast."

Eames nodded before pulling out her earpiece, "True. Within the hour, Bank of America should email me a pdf of his checking and savings activities over the past two years. We all know that New York can eat up your money fast, so Dwyer is going to need replenish his cash flow soon, I mean, that, or he's getting assistance from friends or family."

"Hmmm, I-I don't know Eames, his type is uh, well they are usually loners, you know, b-because they are lead by their compulsions, uh, i-it's just not conducive to friendships or family."

"Pull up over there," Eames pointed towards an olive green one-level ranch style home, "1483 Pine."

For a few minutes, they sat in the Impala, getting a general feel and layout of the environment.

"It's not what I was expecting," Eames frowned, "it doesn't look like a rental."

Eames did a quick one-eighty scan, "the whole neighborhood for that matter, doesn't suggest that any of these homes are rentals."

"Well, could be a local thing," Goren straightened up and gathered his essentials, "a lot of these places have larger plots of land, so some people rent out a granny house, or uh, their basements."

"A granny house?"

Goren chuckled, "you're such a Manhattan girl. It's, uh, it's cheaper to build a small unit on your own property. Uh, and because it's within the property line, and they're not full-size, uh kinda like a studio, or like our hotel suite with the kitchenette."

When they got to the stoop of 1483 Pine and rang the doorbell, a man in his mid-thirties opened the door. The man, who introduced himself as Hal, was in what could be called a disheveled state at best - like he'd only recently crawled out of bed.

"Detectives Goren and Eames," Eames held up her shield, "we have this house listed as Miles Dwyer's last known address."

The man at the door looked slightly taken aback, "Hmmmmm, yes. Miles, uh, hang on just a minute."

Goren wedged his foot between the screen and the heavy wooden exterior door, giving himself some leverage if he needed it.

"You smell that?" Eames whispered.

Goren nodded his head towards the right side of the house. Along his line of sight, one could see that all of the basement storm windows had been conveniently blackened out with either a film or possibly spray paint, "yeah, either they have about ten cats or I'm guessing there's a different reason we're smelling ammonia."

Eames sighed, "he's taking his time, should we go in?"

Before they needed to make that decision, the door cracked open maybe two inches, "Uh, yeah, sorry. It took me a while to find the right set of keys, Miles has, heh heh," the man paused again before continuing, "Miles hasn't returned his set of keys."

_Well he certainly wasn't quick on his feet, but drugs will do that to you. _

Hal continued to flip through his key ring and Goren couldn't help but notice several Sentry brand keys on the ring, "Miles is on some trek, ya know? He left like a month ago, but heh heh, I haven't you know, cleaned up the place yet."

"I'll bet," Eames smirked.

"He in trouble?" Hal queried, moving his skinny ashen frame from out the front door and towards the back yard through a side gate.

"What makes you say that?" Goren followed close behind Hal, keeping the side gate open for Eames, shaking his head as he pointed out the _No Trespassing_ sign.

"You don't look like the local variety," Hal laughed.

"This is quite the setup," Eames noted as they walked towards the separate house addition, "is that access for a car behind the addition?"

"Yeah, the gate slides out near the rear," Hal gestured with his left hand while approaching the front entry way, "and opens up to the back alley."

Hal knocked on the door.

"Back away from the door," Goren shook his head in irritation, "is there someone in there that we should know about?" Goren opened his hand suggestively so that Hal would have no doubts regarding what actions he should take: hand over the keys and split fast.

Hal grinned nervously, relinquishing the keys, "no man, no, I just, you know, common courtesy to knock before you enter."

"Really?" Eames shook her head in mock disbelief before placing her hand on her firearm.

"This one?" Goren looked for confirmation, edging his left shoulder into Hal's personal space for emphasis.

"Y-yeah," Hal nodded, "look, If you need anything, I'll be back, you know, grabbing something to eat or something."

"I think we should call in," Eames muttered under her breath as soon as Hal was out of hearing range.

Goren bit on the inside of his bottom lip, quickly trying to assess the situation. He crept slowly around the side of the side house, "Eames. Someone's been by recently," Goren spoke just above a whisper, noting the gravel pattern and the position of the back gate, "uh, Roberts? Maybe there was contact?"

Goren quietly returned to the front entrance, placed and turned the key before slowly depressing the handle. Eames nodded her head to indicate she was ready, her weapon in full view.

When Goren pushed the door open, Eames bounded through first.

"Clear!"

Goren followed close behind, his heartbeat racing slightly, his weapon also positioned in textbook procedural precaution. Eames motioned her head to the only adjoining room, placed her hand on the door and waited for him to position himself.

Eames positioned herself near the side entrance as Goren barreled through checking all necessary points, his senses on high alert for any movement, "Clear!"

Eames moved in behind him as he toed under the bed. He nodded his eyes towards the closet door and approached the single unit bathroom, eyes still roving, "Clear."

Meanwhile, Eames closed in on what appeared to be the bedroom closet, wedging her foot through the thin opening of a glass sliding door, Eames pushed it open with the weight of her right leg, the barrel of her gun leading the way, "Goren."

The way she said his name, he knew she'd found something important.

Lowering his gun, he moved out of the cramped bathroom only to find Eames pushing hangers of clothing to one side in order to reveal a Sentry brand vault.

"It's bigger than I thought," Eames mused, pulling a pair of latex gloves from her back pocket so she could handle the key and vault without risk of contaminating the possible crime scene.

She put the key from the evidence bag in her right front pocket. Inserting the key in the lock, she smiled when the key turned.

Eames lifted the lid to discover multiple ziplock bags piled one on top of the next. A leather pouch was also tucked neatly to the side of the main compartment.

"Jesus," Eames paused and looked him straight in the eyes, "I don't think I want to look inside."

Goren crouched down to lean in and get a better look, "open the first one, uh that one on top – I, uh, I think I know what's inside."

"I hope this isn't what I think it is," Eames groaned, carefully pulling apart the seam of the first sealed package.

The contents looked a lot like dried, shriveled-up beef jerky. But one might caution, beef jerky with what appeared to be human hair still morbidly attached. Upon closer inspection, Goren was pretty sure that this was a collection of all his preserved trophies.

Eames deftly removed the seal and held the bag open. The aroma made his nostrils flare.

"Oh god," Eames exhaled sharply, holding the bag up for him to get a closer look.

He kneeled over on one knee to lean in; getting as close as he could without touching.

Much like images of a scalping he'd seen from an historic photograph, the skin here had been carefully dried and stretched, with none of what appeared to be pubic hairs, removed.

"This is our boy," Goren barely spoke above a whisper.

What happened next was a blur.

"Bobby look out!"

With the second he had to look into her face, read her expression and turn towards the threat, he managed to take the bulk of the hit with his right arm. Years of training taught him to protect his head first, using the edge of his ulna bone to absorb the brunt of the force from a large stick like object.

Pain exploded from the force of the impact, such that Goren couldn't prevent the cry that escaped his mouth. But even in the confusion that transpired, Goren could feel Eames scrambling behind him, heard her shout, "stop, or I'll shoot."

As the pain from the original blow sent shockwaves through his system, adrenaline coursed through his veins, Eames had given him a small window of time to react. In that second that passed, Goren threw the left side of his body into the attacker, like a fucking linebacker, or better yet, a defenseman in the NHL, using his hip to pin the attacker up against the wall.

He was lucky he couldn't see Eames' expression; it really wasn't that different from the time they'd locked guns at one another during that awful six month period he spent on suspension.

Struggling to maintain pressure and his balance, Goren could hear Eames breath heavy and labored - and could only imagine that she was having a hard time getting a shot off with the bulk of his body in the way.

While applying more pressure to the assailant, Goren suddenly felt the attacker's muscles tense. Goren knew from instinct and past experience that the attacker was going for his final move. Using every ounce of intuition in his arsenal, Goren suddenly released his weight and rolled forward to give his partner the line of sight she needed.

_The truth is, there are people that I trust . . . my partner, she always has my back. _

Before he hit the ground, Goren heard one shot fired, followed by the sound of someone screaming in pain. Goren had only just avoided landing on his injured arm, but in the process tensed all of his muscles in such a way that another blinding shot of pain ripped through his system. He howled out loud before edging himself into a sitting position so he could see what transpired.

"Don't move!" Eames growled.

And there was Eames, standing over the writhing man, her arms formed a triangle, hands wrapped tightly around her firearm.

"Are you okay to call for backup?" Eames called out calmly, kicking a baseball bat just out of range of the wounded assailant while never taking her eyes off of her target.

"Yes," Goren managed, thankful that his dominant hand remained in working order, "This is detective Goren with NYPD," he spoke into his cell, "shots fired, officer down, please send back-up and an ambulance to 1483 Pine street. Yes," he nodded, "that's the correct address and zip."

"You need to hold still or you are going to lose more blood," Eames advised the attacker.

As soon as he hung up with dispatch, Goren was finally afforded an angle where he could see the shot, a clean clip to the right shoulder. He always knew she was dead accurate, Eames had proven it time and again at the range.

Meanwhile, the pain in his arm, combined with the seriousness of the situation made him feel a little nauseous.

_It's just the adrenaline, Goren, it's okay, she's fine, you're fine._

Thirty minutes later, suspect in custody, Eames was released after she finished recounting the incident to several local detectives.

Buckley and Turnbull stood on the sidelines. Buckley's eyes drifting to Eames on more than one occasion.

_For fuck's sake, leave her be. _

Goren winced as the paramedics placed the temporary cast around his right forearm. The pain meds had been administered, but he still was in a great deal of pain. He was going to need an x-ray to confirm, but it was a pretty good bet that he was dealing with a clean fracture.

As soon as she could, Eames came to his side, Buckley and Turbull not far behind.

"You guys sure didn't waste any time. Serial killer and crack house, two for one," Turnbull noted, turning slightly to let two more CSI workers through, "you took a bit of a beating though."

Goren shook his head, "it's not bad," he lied.

Eames notably frowned at his remark, "Dwyer became enraged when we found his stash."

"It's been confirmed? That was Dwyer?" Goren sputtered, "I thought it might be, but - "

"I'll catch you up," Eames tried to smile, but worry lines creased her forehead as she spoke to Turnbull and Buckley, "look, um, I'm going to ride with him to the hospital, is everything under control?"

"Thanks to you," Buckley fawned, "you know detective, you've really got a sharp shot."

Eames concealed a blush by looking down at her shoes, "well, thank you, but all this excitement is going to mess with the evening plans you outlined earlier."

"Will you still be heading back tonight?"

"It depends on my partner's health and our captain's instructions. The most important fact being that Dwyer is in custody."

Goren watched the entire conversation like an extra appendage. He was appreciative when the paramedics finally closed the doors in front of him, obscuring the bustling crime scene from his view. Eames sat down next to him on the gurney.

"Your poor arm," she sighed, tentatively touching the edge of the makeshift cast.

"I was lucky to be in good hands."

"God," Eames said, "I think I lost about five years off my life, I mean, after he hit you, you know, when you had him pinned, your right arm was just dangling by your side. I thought I was going to lose breakfast."

He groaned, "I'm tired."

"I bet," Eames turned in towards him, "I'm sure Hannah will want us to come back tonight. I hope so. I mean, I think we could both use a day or two off."

He closed his eyes, fatigue was setting in and thank god, so were the pain meds.

"Now my dad _and_ my partner are off trekking to the hospital," Eames ran her right hand across her forehead, a deep crease was beginning to settle between her brows.

"I'm tired of feeling like this."

Eames looked confused, "do you need more meds?"

"No," he shook his head, "I just need," he grimaced in frustration, "maybe Gyson can help me sort this out."

Eames squinted, trying hard to read him, "about today?"

"I don't know," he mumbled, "but, uh, how long do you think we can do this?"

Eames cocked her head slightly.

"A-all I know is that I don't want either of us to be in a life or death situation like this for a long time," he paused, "or better yet, maybe never."

Eames tried to smile, her eyes never leaving his, "you're in shock.

"You are too," he spoke softly, looking back down at his fucked up arm.

__I would do anything for you - but you already know that, don't you?__

And the only positive thing he could think of, was that he was glad he took the brutal blow, and not Eames.

* * *

><p><em><em>TBC<em>_


	9. Chapter 9

_Chapter Nine_

_St. Vincent's Hospital, 86th Street West, Wednesday, June 21_

* * *

><p>Eames had come in and out of his room several times in the last half-hour. This time, when she returned, there was no mistaking the relief on her face, "we've been given the green light from Hannah to head back as soon as you are released."<p>

Goren managed a smile, "the doctor should be back shortly to read the x-rays."

"Good," Eames sat down in the chair next to him, "I guess we won't have to change these tickets then," fidgeting slightly, Eames looked down at her shoes, "do you want me to stay or would you prefer some privacy?"

"You mean you don't want to be here for the verdict?" Goren laughed quietly.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"It's broken Mr. Goren, you'll need a cast and pain meds, and now you can go on your merry way," Goren pronounced in a deep pseudo voice.

"Looks like you don't need the verdict to be read at all," Eames laughed, "perhaps you've been here before?"

"I've broken a few bones here and there along the way," Goren admitted, "but this time, I doubt I'll heal as fast as I used too."

Eames nodded, "No, I imagine that we both need a little more time to rebound these days, like you were saying earlier."

"Anyway," Eames brushed a few strands of hair out of her face, "FYI, Dwyer's being treated for his wound downstairs. Physically, he'll be just fine, but soon he's going to find out that he's been charged in the state of Indiana for five counts of first degree murder, torture and rape. Then, if CSI confirms the test results, he'll get a nice little trip to New York to stand trial on the same counts."

Goren sighed, he was glad Dwyer was going to be removed from normal circulation, but he was tired and strangely irritated by just about everything else. I mean, when it came down to it, Hannah would most likely assign him to desk or light duty until his right arm was back to full speed. And for fuck's sake, he wasn't a spring chicken anymore.

"You know," Eames offered, "it's not every day that one bags a serial killer."

Her words pulled at his heart. Who else but Eames could quickly pick up when he was feeling down? Who else understood all of his subtle gestures, tones and facial expressions?

"Are you uncomfortable?" Eames worried, "I can, um, I can ask someone to get you something stronger."

"I'm okay," he tried to reassure, "I've just got a lot on my mind," he paused, "I promise I'll tell you about it when I can, okay?"

She nodded, her eyes lit up momentarily with hope.

They both turned their heads towards the door as a lean male doctor strode in the room, an oversized manila folder (one that presumably housed his x-rays), under his left arm.

"Uh-huh, mmmm. Fractured ulna and radius," the doctor indicated through the smears of grey scale, "the intense pain is of course due to this very large are of swelling. All owing to the fact that you continued to aggravate the injury after the break."

"He didn't have a choice in the matter," Eames immediately defended.

_Can't you see how much she loves you? It's in every action, and carried in every word that leaves her mouth._

"I understand," Doctor Schmidt empathized, before turning to Goren, "but I'm worried about both immediate and chronic nerve damage. Also, considering your age and health, not to mention the severity caused by the blunt force trauma, I can't yet rule out whether or not you will need reductive surgery."

"Is something wrong with his health?" Eames demanded.

"Well, we did a full blood workup to determine factors we should keep in mind for rehabilitation. His LDL is high, I gather from stress and diet. I'm sure your local physician can follow up on diet recommendations. And while I understand that stress management is more difficult to control in today's environment, he needs to get on top of these lifestyle choices. In addition, if there is anyone in his family that has suffered from a heart problems or a stroke, I'd say he'd better change his patterns quickly."

"LDL?"

"Low density lipoprotein," Goren murmered, "uh, the bad kind of cholesterol."

"I don't understand," Eames sputtered, "how does that effect his ability to heal faster?"

"It's other factors Ms. Goren," Schmidt detailed, "as you know, one factor he can't control is age, but we found traces of nicotine in his bloodstream."

Eames head swiveled in Goren's direction, both her eyebrows raised.

_Shit._ Sure he still stole a smoke when he needed too. Truth be told, he'd quit several times during their partnership, managing to wean himself down to one or two, but only in emergency situations. He was certain she'd never pick it up, detective or no, because he was uber discreet.

"I've mostly," Goren shook his head, "I smoke on a very irregular basis, but yes, I understand that studies have shown that nicotine slows down the healing process. I-I guess I've been looking for another good reason to quit."

"Okay then, one more item," Schmidt continued, "there is evidence that you may want to check in with your doctor regarding your free PSA. It could be a false alarm, but the numbers indicate that you are just over the 4.0 nanograms per millimeter red-flag."

Goren was actually a little too shell-shocked to know how to respond. He knew even if he didn't inquire, Eames was sure to ask.

"Look," Schmidt added, "I do a little more than the average workup because I like to get the complete picture of my patients health before I help them make decisions on how to address different lines of treatment."

"Doesn't PSA have to do with the prostate?" Eames queried, her tone unusually low, "I mean, they check my dad for that, is this serious?"

"As I said," Schmidt explained, "when you get back, check in with your doctor after the swelling decreases so that you can see if reductive surgery is a necessity. If you want to positively effect your healing time, not to mention your general health, you need to quit smoking."

Goren thought he was going to be sick, he felt very vulnerable having Eames in the room with him: having her learn about some of his not so positive habits was one thing. And understanding that she was going to worry about him was another.

"Finally, get that PSA checked and work on lowering your cholesterol, okay?"

_Yes doctor, I think you've done enough damage. I'm so glad that Eames now knows the status of my prostate. _

"My head nurse will come in to prep and prepare your cast," Schmidt handed Eames a piece of paper, "and here is the prescription for pain medication that can be filled downstairs.

After Doctor Schmidt left, they both waited (in silence) to have a permanent cast placed on his forearm. Eames continued to pretend to study his prescription of Darvocet, while they were treated to an additional lecture from Schmidt's nurse in regards to what the normal healing process would detail, and what situations would warrant calling the doctor.

"Believe me," the nurse looked Eames in the eye, "the basic rule of thumb is that you need to be the barometer. It's when certain types don't tell you there is a problem – that's your red flag. If he has a fever, chills, or looks generally wretched even with the prescription. Any or all of the above, don't hesitate to call your local physician when you get back home."

Eames nodded, glowering, "yup, that's why Dad's at New York Presbyterian."

* * *

><p>Two text messages later, (from detective Buckley no doubt), Eames helped Goren get situated on the plane, "Do you need anything else out of your bag?"<p>

"Uh, no."

"When did you take your meds last?"

"Alex," Goren tried to smile, "I uh, I know how much you care. I just wish," he paused, trying to figure out how to reassure her without being an asshole, "I-I'm going to take care of myself, I won't keep you in the dark, okay?"

She nodded quickly and sat down in her assigned seat beside him. He couldn't tell if she was caught up with general emotions from the day, or if she was flat out pissed. Better not press.

They rarely spoke to one another even up to their connection in Milwaukee. Finally situated on their connecting flight for the last leg of the trip home, Goren couldn't help but notice Eames texting as the plane sat on the tarmac. She held the phone at an angle so he couldn't see what she was writing. He presumed it was Buckley – and who was he to blame but himself. They'd had a difficult day and he'd been cryptic at best. Who was being a better friend right now? Buckley.

In regards to relationship with Eames, perhaps he was a masochist - one that was setting himself up to fail. And at this moment, failure seemed easier. Or maybe it was the broken bone fucking with his bloodstream.

He fell asleep before takeoff, only to wake up less than halfway through the flight, his right arm pulsing uncomfortably. The pain was still muted, but increasing slowly with time. He shifted to his left to change positions, his shoulder bumping lightly into Eames head.

She didn't move, she was fast asleep – her mouth slightly agape. He was afraid to re-shift because he didn't want to wake her up, and from a realistic perspective, there was very little room for him to maneuver in the first place.

Before he could decide what he should do, she flopped her head on to his shoulder, smacked her lips a few times and resumed her deep sleep.

God, she was so close that he could smell her shampoo, conditioner and facial cream. He could examine every beauty mark and count each individual eyelash. It was a place he'd always wanted to be: curled up next to her, breathing in her scent for hours.

He studied her for the duration of the trip, promising himself that he must, no matter how chicken-shit he felt, address the complexity of his relationship with Eames during his next therapy session. No. Not discuss, first he had to come clean with Gyson. Undo his lie from their previous session. Everybody lies right? All the time.

_How do you feel about her?_

_I told you, uh I-er, I respect her, I admire her. She puts up with my crap, you know? And as you're learning, that's not easy._

_Do you love her?_

_What? Uh, she's my partner! . . . _

_She's a major relationship in your life. Do you have any romantic feelings for her?_

_No._

As the plane landed at La Guardia, her head bobbed against his shoulder and she woke up with a bit of a start. Whether or not she realized she was sleeping on his shoulder he'd never know.

As the plane pulled into the gate and the seatbelt sign turned off, he thought about running off the plane and pulling a loosey from his overnight bag. Then he remembered he was in the business of healing, so he'd better just buy a pack of Altoids from a kiosk instead.

Before he could locate a kiosk that was open at this hour, he and Eames were ambushed by a small pack of reporters: the Ledger, the Post, were among the small throng.

Eames pushed forward, "you're barking up the wrong tree, you can however contact Major Case's captain Hannah for comments."

"You're no fun detective," a rather stodgy dark haired man fired back.

"You have no idea," Eames warned with her tone.

"How'd you hurt your arm detective?"

"Body slamming a guy like you," Goren bantered back.

"Looks like the cat's out of the bag," Eames muttered as they powered towards the parking garage.

* * *

><p>When they pulled up to his apartment, he refused any assistance, "I'm okay."<p>

"Sure," Eames cast her eyes downwards, "but please don't call me from the hospital,okay? Call me beforehand, so I can help."

"I promise," Goren agreed, "call me when you get home."

"Please take care," she looked at him one last time, "sometime soon we should talk about," she paused, "talk about what you were trying to tell me when we were in the ambulance"

"I'd like that."

"Until then, Hannah's giving us a break up through the weekend, so think about it and call me when - when you think it would be a good time."

He tapped the side of her car with his left hand, "Thanks for the lift. Drive home safely. Goodnight, Eames."

And with that, he watched her drive off towards the tunnel.

His body ached for a cigarette more than ever. He rifled through his bag and found the half empty stash. Goren looked longingly at the package before leaving it on the cement stoop. It was time to move on to new horizons, one painful step at a time.

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	10. Chapter 10

_Chapter Ten_

Apartment of Robert Goren, 1115 E. 96th Street, Brooklyn, Thursday, June 22

* * *

><p>Goren managed through an awful night. He had no idea a broken arm was going to fuck everything up. The last time he broke anything, it was minor: a toe, some fingers playing basketball as a youth, he'd even cracked a rib or two fooling around with Lewis in a bit of a fender-bender, but nothing, nothing compared to the situation he found himself in last night.<p>

First off, it was two (not one) broken bones, and a cast that was ridiculously heavy and not at all easy to get comfortable in. There was the chronic throbbing low grade pain, and the fact that it took him twice as long to shower, not to mention get his fucking clothes off in the first place. He had to place a plastic bag around his arm; and just imagine tying off the fucking bag with one hand. Oh yeah, and have you ever tried to open your pain meds with the instructions: press down with one hand and turn while the other hand acts like an uncooperative asshole?

And with all the additional stress, there was no nicotine to turn to either. He raided his fridge twice before finding himself drawn to chewing on the transparent blue eraser cap at the end of his mechanical pencil. He tried to read, but couldn't focus on more than three sentences. In desperation, he put on some jazz records which kind of helped before he finally passed out on his armchair.

Eames contacted him twice, including the night before when she texted him that she arrived safely at her apartment. And then no surprise, informed Goren that she was headed to New York Presbyterian to check in with her father.

Then right on the mark at nine in the morning, his cell phone buzzed and vibrated.

"Good morning Eames."

"How bad was it?"

"Mmmmm," Goren thought long and hard before deciding to ignore her question completely. Honestly, he was still too pissed to talk about it, "how's your dad?"

"Worst deflection yet," Eames irritation rang clear through his headset, "but, I think I can manage to bring you a few meals during the day. So, whaddya want?"

"Really? Most taxi cabs I know won't deal with the trek from Presbyterian to Canarsie during the lunch or rush hour" Goren was trying to be funny, but after a wretched night of sleep and frayed nicotine-craving nerves, he was paranoid that it probably came out more like a mean spirited ass, "look, thank you, but I can manage."

"But how are you going to cook with one hand?"

"By picking up my cell phone and autodialing take-out."

Eames laughed, "I'm going to bring you a home cooked meal Sunday night, and I won't take no for an answer. Senior partner privilege. But hey, it looks like Dad's going to get kicked out tomorrow afternoon, well, provided he continues to show improvement. So I'll get him settled back into his place Saturday."

"What time will you come by?"

"You got plans?"

_No, but it's going to take me twice as long to get ready. _

"No," he admitted, "I'm just not - "

"Into surprises," Eames laughed, finishing his sentence, "are you sure there's nothing I can do for you?"

"I'll see you Sunday, Eames. I hope your dad feels better. Uh, send him my best."

"Thanks, I will." Eames paused, "See you Sunday."

Fuck, he thought as he hung up. She was busy with her dad. Truthfully, he didn't want to burden her any more than she'd already been given, (with her dad in the hospital and all), but more importantly, he didn't feel like it was a good idea for her to be around him in this state. He was unusually cranky and quick to lose his temper under the circumstances. He'd recently released a fair share of colorful language just while attempting to shave.

* * *

><p>Office of Dr. Paula Gyson, 931 Broadway, Sunday, June 26<p>

* * *

><p>He sat in Gyson's waiting room, between two large prints of Japanese calligraphy that he determined were most likely from the Edo period.<p>

His legs vibrated up and down, nervous energy coursing through his body. So much had passed in a week, and truth be told, he'd been both looking forward to and dreading this appointment.

"Detective?" Gyson paused, unable to disguise the shock of seeing him in this no doubt sorry ass state, "Robert?"

He stood up quickly and walked through the grey utilitarian door, "I-uh, well, as you can see," he lifted his cast up and waved it unceremoniously, "it's been a busy week."

Gyson ushered him in before gesturing for him to sit down, "can I get you something to drink?"

"Water, thank you," Goren settled down across from her, taking a seat in one of Gyson's designer leather chairs.

Gyson poured him a glass of water before pulling a side table over to the left hand side of his chair so he could set his glass down without effort.

"Uh, you don't have to," Goren started, but stopped when he realized Gyson wasn't going to mind his protestations.

She sat down across from him, folding her feet comfortably under her, which was a bit of an odd position, but one he'd become familiar with after seven sessions. What still unnerved him however, was her ability to see through him, much like she was doing now: quietly studying him, waiting for him to both commence with and choose the direction of the conversation.

He sighed, "thank you for, uh, continuing to meet with me, I know that you didn't have to uh, continue with our sessions."

She smiled and nodded, waiting patiently, putting the pressure on him to choose the tone, texture and theme of the subject they would discuss this afternoon.

If she tossed any hints his way, it was in the way her eyes drifted to the cast on his right arm, the one that stood out shockingly against his black t-shirt.

"Part of the job," Goren tried to laugh it off, "it happened Wednesday," he paused, "in Indiana of all places."

Gyson's eyes narrowed slightly, "that's not your dominant hand, I hope?"

"No," Goren ran his left hand through his hair, "but, it's already having an effect on my ability to work."

Gyson nodded, "on everything, I imagine."

True. Goren didn't feel like going into the minor fits of rage he felt like going through every time he went to snap or button his clothing, forget his necktie, he was going to need a fucking clip-on. But damned, the worst part was just trying to sleep comfortably, that or washing himself in the shower. I mean, for the first few nights, he slept on his recliner.

"Sounds frustrating," Gyson continued, "how are you dealing?"

He shook his head, "I guess as well as I can."

"And how about when it effects your work?" Gyson probed, "you'll be unable to drive or carry a firearm? For what, six to eight weeks?"

_Yes. Thank you for reminding me._

Goren nodded, "at least. And yes, it is very frustrating. I mean, it won't be the first time I've been suspended from normal duty, o-obviously, but the first time that it's been something physical that's held me back."

"And you've only just come back to the job," Gyson reminded softly, "So what will you do when frustration sets in?"

He shook his head, trying not to become irritated by Gyson's obvious segue-way into anger management, "I-I'll do a better job of understanding my limitations, try to lower my expectations. Uh, lowered expectations abate frustrations."

Gyson shot him a knowing look, "Very textbook answer," she observed before needling, "Will your partner absorb more responsibility?"

"Sure," he sighed, "but she already drives, and, you know, in terms of not being able to carry a firearm, well, uh, physical encounters are still a rarity."

"Are they? Maybe you've been lucky." Gyson challenged, "Look, now that your physical state is compromised, what if a situation were to get physical again? What if something happened to your partner because of - "

"No, no, no," Goren shook his head with emphasis, "I know where you are trying to go with this."

"Okay," Gyson sat forward in her chair, "where am I going with this?"

"It's obvious that you are, you know, trying to rile me. Turn this into an opportunity to go full out with your anger management agenda."

"Try to keep in mind, this isn't the continuation of your review," Gyson reminded, "you passed."

"Passed with recommendations," Goren clarified.

"And it was your choice to come back, to show up with a broken arm, and walk through that door. I'm assuming it's because you want and are ready to start getting into some of the more difficult work."

Goren chuckled to cover his growing nerves.

"Come now," Gyson continued, "let's stop playing games. I know you're smart enough to dance circles around the issues for our entire hour session, but is that what you really want?"

No. It's not what he wanted, but he was still too fucking afraid to open up.

"Now," Gyson leaned forward one inch closer, "did you get agitated back there because I suggested this was going to have an impact on your ability to do your job," Gyson looked directly into his eyes, "or because this turn of events compromises your ability in such a way that could endanger and pile more responsibility on your partner?"

He turned away from Gyson, stood up and started pacing, nearly knocking over the side table with his water in the process.

"Fuck," he muttered, steadying the glass, eyes searching for something to wipe up the water, "uh, sorry."

"It's okay," Gyson responded, "don't worry about the water. Let's start right here - and no running away. My gut tells me that you'll continue to get agitated anytime I bring up your partner."

He continued to pace, refusing to stop and give her any indication that this was in fact the truth.

"It's a process of elimination, really," Gyson spoke quietly, smoothing out a strand of hair with her right hand, "in the past sessions, we've discussed both work and your family. And because the issue of your job security is no longer in question," Gyson motioned towards him, as if she were gesturing for him to sit back down, "Well Robert, you tell me. Tell me what you are feeling when I bring up your partner."

"I - uh, you know how I feel," Goren shook his head back and forth, "uh, I-I have this strong desire to keep her out of these sessions."

"You want to protect her."

"Yes," Goren emphasized, "s-she didn't ask for this you know?"

"Ask for what?" Gyson queried, "I'm not working or reporting to NYPD anymore. Therefore, why does your partner, who from what you've described to me is very capable of taking care of herself - "

"Look," he growled suddenly, "I lied okay? Everyone lies."

"Well," Gyson errantly pulled at the fabric on her skirt, "They might lie to protect someone they care about."

"I know you know," Goren revealed with a tinge of emotion. He decided to stop pacing, making his move over to the couch opposite the chairs and plopped down, his heart racing, breath heavy, "I mean, you're smart. And your job is to read people too."

Gyson smiled warmly and nodded.

"So, how long did, uh, when did you figure it out?" Goren looked up to meet Gyson's eyes.

"Your actions, your body language," Gyson explained, "When I asked if you loved her – you went from calm to highly agitated in a small amount of time, and you were fidgeting more than usual." Gyson paused in thought, "Actually, it was the most agitated you'd been in any of our sessions well up until the following session, but that was all a distraction, wasn't it? Altogether, it was a real tell. I knew I'd hit something."

"And there is something very deep here," Gyson cautioned, "and I don't know if we will be able to uncover the root of the issue in one or multiple sessions for that matter. What I do want, Robert, or rather what I want to ask of you, is that you be patient with me. And be patient with yourself. Together, we will head into this uncharted territory - and if at any time the subject becomes too painful or causes you to feel undue anger, anxiety or any emotion that you feel you cannot process or control, I want you to try practicing a different technique."

"So," Gyson continued as to explain the technique, "when it becomes too much, we'll take a timeout. Count to ten, or breath in and out from your center for a solid minute. Then, when you feel calm enough, I want you to work on expressing your emotions in an assertive, but non-confrontational way."

He nodded, "I know the technique."

_And in his heart of hearts, he knew that this is what he wanted and needed all along: he wanted to let go, share the burden, but he'd be lying if he wasn't scared shit-less. _

"You admire her, you respect her and," Gyson paused, "you love her. And that's a good thing, these are all positive reasons to have feelings for your partner."

"For Alex, uh A-alexandra ," Goren personalized, even though they'd talked about Eames, Gyson nor he had ever identified her by name during any of the sessions.

"So, you have feelings for her, romantic feelings?"

He nodded tentatively, as if saying the words might still be betraying Eames.

"For how long?"

"I-I mean, she's you know, very," he paused deep in thought, "uh, like yourself, she's very attractive, uh so, of course right from the start, i-it was nothing really, just you know, sometimes noticing her like, uh, like any straight man, I guess."

"But then something changed?"

"She uh, she, you know, uh in an earlier session, I said their were breaks, uh, the first was during a maternity leave - "

"I'm sorry?" Gyson looked relatively shocked, "She was pregnant? I thought you said - "

"Yes, uh, she was married, but this was during our partnership, uh, long after Joe, yes h-her husband was killed in the line of duty not long before we were assigned as partners," Goren paused, edging back over to his original seat to get a sip of water, "she carried, uh, she was a surrogate for her sister, and you know, had to take some time off."

"That must have been an interesting challenge. How did you feel about her making that decision? A decision which clearly had an effect on your partnership."

Goren rubbed at his chin, "well, yes, it was, you know, I-I wanted to be supportive, so I was, but - "

"But?" Gyson gently prodded.

"I felt awful, you know," Goren sighed uncomfortably, "I was torn, feeling guilt on one end of the spectrum because, well, I-I was very upset with her, and uh, it was a struggle working with a temp partner. I guess I knew at that point, you know, when I was missing her, I – uh started understanding how much I needed her."

"You needed her," Gyson mused, "you missed her. Interesting words. There's a difference between need and love. Or I suppose there is another kind of need. A need or desire for physical intimacy."

"It's not like that," Goren grumbled.

"Then what is it like?" Gyson pushed, "You used her name in our session for the first time, and that's a step in the right direction. But you still have yet to reveal how you really feel about her."

"Look," Gyson leaned back into her chair, "you need to stop playing this game with yourself. You need to think about what it is that you need from her. You need to define your emotions, don't keep lying to yourself. I know, I understand, it's what you've done to stay safe, to stay sane. But by not allowing yourself to have real, identifiable words for your feelings, well, yes, you've protected yourself from the pain of losing her or the pain of rejection, but you've also prevented yourself from actualizing the things that you need."

"But I don't get it! Why define when there i-isn't," Goren struggled to find the words, "it's not realistic. It's not to be had, w-we don't, we have these defined roles, we can't just," he sputtered.

"Can't what?" Gyson asked, "Look, I'm sure you've seen enough examples in your line of work, enough to know that when you act out of fear, your fears come true."

"So what is your greatest fear detective?" Gyson riddled.

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

This Gyson session is getting heated and long - long enough that I'm going to break it up into two sections. Yes, Goren needs lots of therapy. But then again, I don't want to bore the cr*p out of you.


	11. Chapter 11

_Chapter Eleven_

* * *

><p>"So," Dr. Paula Gyson recast her question, "your greatest fear?"<p>

"No," Goren sat up abruptly, "I-I don't see how this relates, I mean, i-it's too, it's a risk, and I can't - "

Gyson held up her right hand in a half-hearted attempt to get him to sit back down, "wait, let's try the technique."

His head was exploding from the inside, and Gyson wanted him to count to ten!

Fighting his natural instinct to remain noncompliant, Goren took in a deep breath and returned to a seated position. He closed his eyes and counted backwards from ten. As each number resonated through his skull, he tried to focus on his breathing.

"Okay?" Gyson held her head to the side, waiting patiently for him to open his eyes.

He opened his eyes and nodded. Admittedly, even though this was his eighth session, Goren still didn't feel he trusted Gyson enough – well, enough to share something so fucking personal.

"Do you feel less threatened?"

"I'm not threatened," Goren spoke in what could only be perceived as a warning.

Gyson appeared slightly disappointed, "I may be pushing you too quickly."

Goren shook his head, eyes deliberately trained on Gyson, "no, let's keep going."

"You seem fatigued," Gyson looked reticent, "I'm sure you understand that there are physiological changes going on as your body heals."

"Now you are taking the defensive posture," Goren challenged, "pulling away, giving up on me, right? I-I'm beyond help, you said as much during previous sessions. In fact, you never answered the question regarding whether it is even possible for a man like me to have a normal relationship. You, uh, you simply generalized your answer: with time, work, more sessions - "

"This is but one session detective," Gyson emphasized, "we can't begin to solve a complex situation in one single session. Surely you must understand that we are dealing with deeply seeded issues: Issues that have formed over years - habits, decisions, and life choices that have helped shape who you are today."

"This stream of psycho-babble," Goren laughed, "I mean, what the hell does it mean? I _need_ your help. Real help, not a bunch of hypotheticals and conjecture."

"Then let me help you," Gyson asserted calmly.

"Look," she continued, "You're good, _real good_ at dodging my questions. But I need you to stop using everything in your arsenal to fight me."

He was just about to protest, when she held up her hand for good measure, "Now stay with me." Gyson stressed, "Let's get this straight: you can't, or you won't share your fears with me? Because, to me, this sounds like a trust issue."

He looked away, irritated. Irritated, of course, because she was skillfully taking away some of his best strategies.

"So tell me detective," Gyson proposed, "if you can't trust that what goes on in this room isn't going to come back and bite you on your backside, well then, what can I possibly do to help you?"

Goren felt another spark of anger shoot through his nervous system. With her carefully constructed line of questioning, Gyson had deftly backed him into the corner of the room. He now shared the same primal emotions of a feral dog in a cage: tail between his legs, hackles raised, ears back and teeth barred – prepared to bite if needed. With flight no longer an option, should he fight? That, or he could curl up in a ball and take his beating.

And truth be told, in so many ways, he was the one who had challenged her. Indeed, he was the one during today's session who asked her to proceed. _No let's keep going._

What the fuck was he thinking? Eight sessions should have told been enough to help him see that Gyson was not afraid to stand up to him, immune to his tactics . . .

Another uncomfortable ten seconds passed before Gyson continued to remount her line of attack, "What is this big risk you don't want to take, don't wish to share?"

He shifted nervously, unable or unwilling to speak.

Gyson bit down on her lower lip, and proceeded slowly, "you are afraid to lose her."

He blanched upon her pronouncement.

Gyson quietly studied him before adding, "you are afraid that," and then she paused again as if a new idea had suddenly filtered into her head, "last week, I described your job at Major Case as your sense of purpose: your job defines you. So without your job, you don't matter."

"And so you believe that outside of your work, if it really, truly is the only thing that matters about you," Gyson continued, "what value could you possibly hold for Alexandra outside of work?"

"Y-you don't understand," Goren spoke just above a whisper, "she is the only one, the _only one_ who has been there for me. S-she, when everyone else thought I was crazy, and you know, with my background, she's never given up on me. She is the one person that believes in me."

"Hmmm. Maybe this will help, or, um, let me phrase this dilemma in a different light," Gyson spoke slowly, deep in concentration, "without your job you are certain you'll lose her, that being because without the job you hold no value to your relationship. _But_, on the other hand, do you see that by lying to both your partner and yourself – that you'll never have this deep connection, this relationship with her that you desire."

"What do you know about what I desire?" Goren snapped back, his hostility barely contained.

"Like all of humanity," Gyson strung her words together with care, "you are seeking connection: a relationship, acceptance, unconditional love - all things necessary and nurturing to the human spirit."

"And not only is this desire normal human behavior, it is something that _every_ individual deserves," she continued, her eyes never wavering from contact with his, "yes, you _deserve_ this Robert."

Emotion stung, and his nose flared. He wanted to – he wanted to fucking believe.

"So please listen," Gyson emphasized, "Before our next session, I want you to zone in on _you_ first: your needs, your desires. Just be mindful that the introspection this may lead to doesn't include any obsessive thinking patterns that primarily focuses on whether your partner deserves this or didn't ask for that."

Goren shifted uncomfortably, his left hand repeatedly kneading the arm of his chair, "Can you not see that if I, er-uh, once I," he hesitated, "o-once I open up to Eames, tell her how I feel - " he paused before lowering his forehead into the palm of his left hand.

"She'll never look at you the same way again?" Gyson shook her head, "Look, reading over your file and understanding that you've had this very important long term relationship with your partner. Not to mention, listening to you tell me that she's never let you down and has always been there for you through thick or thin. Or how did you say it? That sticking with you for all those years isn't an easy thing to do? Why then? Why is she still by your side?"

"I-I don't know," Goren flinched, "Honestly, I have no goddamned idea."

"Well then," Gyson suggested, "you should ask her."

Gyson must have seen the mortified look spread rapidly across his face, for she quickly added, "I have a feeling Alexandra understands that there is so much more to you than your job."

And before he could refute Gyson's comments, he watched as she eased out of her chair, "I think," Gyson smiled, "we've made real progress today."

He looked up at the clock on her desktop and was amazed to see that an hour had flown by, "uh, okay," he muttered in a haze.

"Is this working for you?" Gyson asked, "Shall we continue a week from today?"

Goren nodded.

"Thank you," he mumbled before exiting from the twin of the door he entered an hour before.

* * *

><p>Outside of the office of Dr. Paula Gyson, 931 Broadway, Sunday, June 26<p>

* * *

><p>As Goren proceeded down the steps of the refurbished brownstone off of Broadway, it was like deja-vu all over again.<p>

But instead of the black Explorer that had been waiting for him last week, he was treated to the profile of Eames reading a copy of the Post, leaning her back against the side of her familiar white four-door Honda Accord.

As soon as Eames recognized him, she set the copy of the paper on the hood of her car, pulling her sunglasses down just enough to steal a quick glimpse. And upon looking him over up and down, she couldn't hide the grimace that crossed her face if only for a second.

"Who paid to put a tail on me?" he joked, hoping to lighten the mood.

Fuck. Did he really look that bad?

"Between you and my dad," Eames muttered, "it's like you're both in cahoots - trying to age me five years in five days."

"You are a little early for dinner." Goren observed, "unless you got word of a new situation."

Eames shook her head, "Hannah wouldn't dare," before adding, "I'm assuming you were going to take subway home?"

"L-train all the way," Goren announced in very a nonchalant manner.

Eames looked less than thrilled, "I just know that you are going to let me give you a lift. I, um, thought after I dropped you off at your place, I'd could grab some supplies at the store for that home cooked meal I promised."

Even though his head was still swimming through from the intensity of his session with Gyson, it wasn't hard to see that something was riding heavy on his partner's mind.

And part of him wanted to run. His brain was battered and wounded. He needed a break.

Would she kill him if he refused the lift?

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	12. Chapter 12

_Chapter Twelve_

* * *

><p><em>Why is she still by your side?<em>

_I-I don't know. Honestly, I have no goddamned idea._

_Well then, you should ask her._

"Bobby?"

Goren stood in a daze outside Gyson's office building, paralyzed in thought. Gyson's words still swirling through his head - followed by Johnny Eames:

_Really? You don't see it? Alex would never have given up the opportunity to be captain of Major Case for anyone else._

"Bobby, you coming?"

Goren was just about to fall into his regular response pattern, when he remembered Gyson's charge:

_Before our next session, I want you to zone in on __**you**__ first: your needs, your desires. Just be mindful that the introspection this may lead to doesn't include any obsessive thinking patterns that primarily focuses on whether your partner deserves this or didn't ask for that._

He walked over to her, "Uh, Alex?"

Eames turned her head to the side and lifted her sunglasses to rest on the top of her head.

"I need something, uh," he swallowed with effort, his throat felt tight.

"Sure."

"I need to take the L-train."

"Tough session?" Eames managed after a pause, a pained look taking over her face.

"Yeah," he spoke quietly, eyes trained on the sidewalk, "can we talk about it over dinner?"

"Okay," Eames hoarsely agreed, dropping her shades back over her eyes, "I'll be over at the time we originally discussed?"

"Thank you," he muttered, as the emotional pain flooded his body. Gyson told him that he should zone on his needs first, well if that was true, why did he feel like shit?

And seconds after Eames got in her driver's seat, heading south down Broadway, he immediately felt like he'd made a big mistake.

* * *

><p>Apartment of Robert Goren, 1115 E. 96th Street, Brooklyn, Sunday, June 26<p>

* * *

><p>Goren buzzed her in before quickly pacing himself down the stairwell to meet her halfway.<p>

"Hi," he greeted tentatively, eyeing a bag of groceries that she carried in each arm, "can I help?"

"You've got one good arm," she observed raising her right brow, "how about opening the door?"

_Yup. She was still hurt about what had transpired earlier in the day. _

After the long subway ride home, he'd spent most of the time making sure both he and the apartment were in order. He'd tidied up, did a general bathroom clean before making sure the kitchen was in working order for Eames.

When she walked through his door, his hard work appeared to payoff. For while her facial expressions were subtle, he could tell his preparations were having a positive effect on her general state of being. And after visiting Johnny Eames place several weeks back, Goren understood why. It was important for Alex to know that he wasn't slipping down the same track as her father.

"You've changed things around a bit," Eames noted, "it looks nice."

Eames hadn't been to his apartment for some time. Until recently, his small one bedroom had always had the air of a second office versus a true living environment.

And as of late, there was very little point. Goren hadn't even come close to entertaining a steady girlfriend since his mother Frances was diagnosed. But even before the cancer, he'd never tried that hard to hide the fact that he lived and breathed his career.

Indeed, back before his life fell into complexity, it wasn't nearly that difficult to pick up a beautiful creature: he was younger, lean, and without so much as a grey hair - save his sideburns. He had more cash back then too, cash to splash on a cleaning lady, not to mention other extravagances.

"Uh, thanks," Goren managed a smile, "the plants, I've managed to keep alive, uh, you see, they like that spot by the window. They were, um, they were from my mom's room at Carmel Ridge."

He quickly changed subjects when her face fell slightly, "uh, and the record player, it uh, it was also inherited, and it's you know, old school. But, uh, I like the antiquity of it all, it's been nice for my vinyl collection too."

She smiled, "it does look nice, and with all your books against the wall, plus your leather armchair, its really gotta cozy feel."

With that, Eames quickly maneuvered into his kitchen to start dinner preparations, "I've only made this recipe once before, so you'll have to keep that in mind."

"I didn't know you cooked," Goren offered, "so I'm already impressed."

He peered over her shoulder, watching her pull items from both grocery bags.

"So what's on the menu tonight?"

"I'm going to try this salmon recipe," she cracked open her laptop, and using her wireless card, pulled up a page she'd saved to her favorites, "it's highly recommended because its not only tasty, but also a healthy alternative that is –"

"High in omega-3 fatty acids," Goren playfully finished her explanation before moving in behind her to inspect the rest of the contents to be found, "I've read about the studies," he continued as he rummaged through the bag, "olive oil, romaine, goji berries and almonds?"

"Well," Eames clarified, "I'd never even heard about goji berries until we landed that father-son case. I remembered that they were high in antioxidants."

"All good foods for improving cholesterol, and other health issues," Goren murmured, "enough for any detective to surmise that you have an agenda."

"I have no idea what you are talking about," Eames laughed.

"What's this?" Goren held up several packages of cinnamon gum.

"Oh, yeah," Eames blushed slightly, "that's for something entirely different."

Goren shifted uncomfortably, "I think, uh, I think I have an idea of where this is going."

"Oh yeah?" Eames finished unpacking the salad materials before rummaging through his cabinet drawers, "Well, my uncle Paul swears that this particular brand of gum, and flavor I imagine, helped him kick his habit. Um, without putting the pounds on, that is."

"Uh-huh, the cutting board is in the last cabinet on your left hand side," Goren held the package of gum and studied it carefully, "I do like cinnamon, thank you, and uh, I'm glad it's not your way of telling me I have bad breath."

Eames laughed while she rinsed the head of romaine, "I'm never indirect."

"True," Goren swallowed thickly, "I do like that about you," he paused to open up the pack of gum, carefully unwrapping it with the aid of his right fingers, "so, the good news is that I've been nicotine free since you dropped me off from the airport."

Eames turned around and rewarded him with her beautiful signature smile, "that's good. Really good."

"These will help," Goren put a square stick of gum in his mouth, the flavor of cinnamon filled his nostrils, and spiced his tongue, "thank you."

As Eames busily chopped up the romaine leaves, Goren walked over towards his stack of vinyl records, "would you, uh, would you like me to put on some music? I-I've got mostly jazz, s-some classical too, but, uh, I could also turn on the radio, uh, if there is a station you prefer."

"Your choice," Eames offered, "I've always been curious about your musical tastes. Put on one of your favorites."

_No pressure there. What if she hated it? _

He decided to go with the ever-classic Miles Davis, hoping for the best.

While Eames skillfully tossed and dressed the salad, Goren turned up the air conditioner and sat down in his armchair, savoring the gum in his mouth, which was actually quite soothing.

Eames popped the salmon in the oven and proceeded to set the table, the same table that was usually backed into the far corner of the room, a glorified work desk during the week.

"Are you sure I can't help?" Goren watched her helplessly, feeling generally awkward about the entire affair. After all, he couldn't recall the last time he'd been served dinner in this manner. For that matter, nor could he remember the last time he'd had a date, or made out with someone, or had sex.

Eames shook her head, "we should be ready soon. Salmon cooks quickly, and I don't want to dry it out."

And when all was said and done, the meal was pretty good, definitely home-cooked and healthy.

"Thank you," he set back in his chair and wiped at the corners of his mouth.

"You're welcome," Eames smiled broadly, "I'm glad you liked it."

"I did. It was uh, you know, very special," Goren sighed, shifting his legs to the side of his chair so he could lean up against the wall, "I uh, I know you wanted to talk, and uh, we haven't had that much time since we got back from the trip – e-especially with your dad and all. How is he?"

"He's okay," Eames frowned slightly, "but I'm always worried though. As you know, he, um, he doesn't take the time to really look after himself."

Goren nodded, pulling himself forward slightly, "so, do you want to go out for a walk?"

"Actually," Eames set her napkin on the table, "I quite like the ambience. The music, meal and company, it's quite a treat."

"Well," Goren leaned over until his left elbow settled on the table, "I promised you that I'd talk about things when, well, I guess I've been meaning to talk to you for some time."

Eames looked up at him, staring into his eyes, her left hand playing with the corner of her napkin, "I've been thinking, or feeling rather, that you've been trying to tell me something over these past few weeks."

Goren nodded, "I've been trying to figure out how to broach the subject, I-I I'm not even sure how to begin."

He stood up slowly and walked over towards her, she looked up at him - her face a mixture of confusion and intrigue.

"Please don't take this the wrong way," he spoke quietly, crouching down directly in front of her chair to meet her eye level, his left hand open to accept hers.

"In fact," he continued shakily, taking hold of her right hand, "I want you to know that if this isn't what you imagined or asked for, I'm okay with it, I just, I just need you to know that whatever the outcome, uh, I will always respect and admire you, and, uh, hope that you will still be my friend."

Eames expression was unfathomable, fixed in a manner he'd never seen before. Her eyes held such deep emotions, emotions that threatened to flood through at any moment. And when she could bear it no more, she pulled her left hand to her lips to control the flow of words that left her mouth, "I'll always be your friend, your very best, I hope."

He nodded his head slowly, biting the inside of his bottom lip to keep his own emotions under control. The final piece of the puzzle was just coming into place.

_True love – we all want to believe._

"Dr. Gyson has b-been, you know, trying to help me through some of my issues, some of the guilt and uh, anger stuff. And there are t-trust issues too. But I do want to get better, you know. I want to get better and when I do, uh, you know I want to try, I'll be ready to try and, uh, I want you to know h-how much y-you mean to me."

And when he finished his last sentence, he felt her squeeze his hand, hard. Saw and felt the way her body shivered suddenly.

"Do you, uh, do you f-feel the same way about me?"

She nodded quickly, her breath ragged with emotion, "very much."

"Do, uh, do you want, er-uh, do you think it could work out between us, uh, you know, beyond Major Case?"

And before he could wait for her to respond, she pulled him forward by the hand: a strong tug, but not enough for him to lose his balance. Cupping the sides of his jaw with both hands, she pulled him towards her waiting lips.

So all along, Johnny Eames had been right about his daughter.

And based on the voracity of her passion, Goren was just starting to understand how long Alex had been waiting for him to make his move.

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

Careful Eames, Goren's got that broken arm.


	13. Chapter 13

_Chapter Thirteen_

* * *

><p>Apartment of Robert Goren, 1115 E. 96th Street, Brooklyn, Sunday, June 26<p>

* * *

><p>It was a side of Eames he'd never seen before. Her actions conveying that verbal communication was no longer necessary.<p>

Indeed, his usually restrained and calm partner was all a-frenzy, her emotions leeching out with every moment of contact that passed between them.

Admittedly, it was painful at times, both absorbing and processing her needs. As much as he wanted this, his psyche wouldn't let go of the guilt. So at this moment, a moment when he should feel exceptional happiness for the opportunity to do something he'd only fantasized about, he was overcome with sadness when he reflected about the times he'd failed to meet her emotional needs. Which as he was gathering, was often.

And now, what was most pressing, beyond the heavy petting that ensued, was the question surrounding how he'd been able to remain oblivious to his partner's need to share an intimate relationship.

Had Gyson been right all along? Had he been purposefully lying to himself, or was he really blind to the notion that Eames wanted him as much as he wanted her?

He was, after all, an eleven-year veteran detective at Major Case, and a prodigy of Declan Gage. And it wasn't like Eames hadn't dropped clues. The proof lay etched in her actions: how she fought to keep him on multiple cases, advocated for him against some of the most powerful political adversaries, resigned advancement at the peak of her career, and ccepted reassignment back to Major Case on the condition that she be partnered with him.

Clues? No, more like fucking landmines.

"Bobby," she breathed, her heady voice interrupting his thoughts.

Their lips pressed together. And yes, they were polite kisses at first, polite kisses which quickly evolved in intensity: all tongues and teeth and . . . _oh, I want her now_. Both of them vying desperately to find the right angles, fumbling awkwardly as they bumped noses and missed each other's mouths entirely.

And there were these soft, low sounds that were decidedly coming from his partner. Was she crying? Before he could be certain, she whispered into his right ear, "Bobby, please."

Determined not to fuck it up this time, he pulled her in, (tiny thing that she was), and nearly dragged her with his broken arm onto his bed. When he released her, even though he'd carefully compensated for his injury, he could feel an angry throbbing in his right arm. He stood above her, catching his breath, waiting for the pain to subside.

"Bobby," Alex encouraged sweetly, both arms reaching out towards him. He slid down beside her, the cumbersomeness of his cast still presenting the same difficulties he'd faced all week when he tried to get comfortable in bed.

"Now," Eames muttered between sloppy warm kisses, wedging a pillow between his chest and right arm, "how do you think we can keep this out of firing range?"

"You can't hurt me," he assured, wiggling the fingers of his right hand, the ones that were slightly obscured by the cast.

"Would you tell me if I did?"

He nodded in affirmation, slightly crestfallen because he knew damn well why she needed such assurances.

Staring into her soft brown eyes, he used his cast-less hand to trace up and down her body. When his fingers grazed the small show of skin between her tank top and jeans, Alex immediately responded by angling her body in a manner which essentially gave him the green light to explore.

His fingers eased up her ribs, pausing for good measure as he touched the elastic material of her bra. He pulled the material forward and up, "come closer," he beckoned, guiding her towards his waiting lips.

And it had been so long since he'd had a woman this close, not to mention felt comfortable with her. His arousal intensified as his mouth and tongue explored her soft skin. Alex cried out unexpectedly, invigorated by his attentions to her chest.

And then suddenly, she pulled away in an effort to work his shirt over his head.

"Uh," he stiffened slightly, "It's okay, you, uh, it's not going to be easy to pull over my head and, uh, you know - with the arm, don't worry, okay?"

She edged upwards to meet his eyes, understanding that there was something he wasn't comfortable with, so they moved on.

At some point, her hands wandered between his legs, and he pushed back against her reflexively. _Oh god, it's been so long._

"If you look in the top drawer of that side table," he tried to catch his breath, licking at his slightly bruised lips, "you'll uh, you'll find - "

Per his instructions, she found his stash of condoms. A shiver of anticipation rushed through his nervous system as she pulled the elastic band of his underwear down just enough to roll the latex ring around him.

What followed, in that which seemed to be the most natural course of action (considering the circumstance of his injury that is) Alex sat astride him. Falling and folding around him, he moaned out loud as the pressure and tightness enveloping him completely. Synapses fired, but the only information that transferred was that of how his body should respond to every physical sensation.

The fingers on his right hand grasped tentatively at her left thigh, searching for anyway to get more leverage. Indeed, there was all the frenetic motions needed by both partners as they strove to find the positions and pacing that would bring them both to orgasm.

They were both close. And as her breath quickened, he felt her shift to a slightly lower angle. Her momentum changed suddenly, and the resulting torque that was placed on his right arm sent immediate shock waves of pain up his arm. He gritted his teeth, focusing on breathing through the pain as she continued to grind up and down against his hips.

As the throbbing in his right arm diminished, he was able to register her groan of approval, feel her shift violently downward on him, enough to gain an awareness of the slight pulsing deep between her thighs.

She eased upwards slightly, catching her breath, "did you make it?"

He nodded, eyes lowered, quickly maneuvering around before peeling off his condom to hide the lack of evidence. He edged off the bed striding quickly to the bathroom, very relieved that during their first sexual encounter Eames hadn't seen him completely naked. She'd have to wait till he dropped about ten more pounds he decided, opening the toilet lid to dispose of the condom.

Flushing the toilet, Goren grabbed a washcloth and liquid soap to clean up before heading back to the bed. It was one of his chief complaints about condoms, the awful aromatic staying power of latex. He certainly handled enough latex on the job and didn't want to mix associations. Namely, the job: Eames and latex, and his sex life: Eames and latex. Yes, not a pleasant association. Perhaps they could explore different methods of birth control.

Upon seeing him return, Alex rolled over and patted the bed beside her, a devilish grin spreading across her face, "not bad for an injured player."

To his delight, she was more sensual than he ever could have imagined. Keeping in mind of course, that all these years he'd trained his brain not to think of Eames as a sensual creature. Beautiful, yes! But a partner first, friend second – someone to be admired from afar.

"I, uh, I can't wait for this to heal," he admitted.

"It will," she empathized, "but for now, I'll just have to take it easy on you."

Goren sighed, "that Alex, _that_ was amazing. _You_ were amazing."

"It felt right," she smiled, "but I guess I always thought it would if, you know, if and when we made it this far."

"How long?" he queried.

She cocked her head, as he sidled up beside her.

"Uh, how long did you, uh," he clarified "how long did you know, uh, that you wanted this to happen?"

"Well let me see," Eames pulled her bra back into place, while hunting idly for her tank top, "I'm pretty sure I've had feelings for you since, well, pretty early on - just after our first couple of years together."

He felt his jaw drop, no poker face whatsoever.

"Well, it's not entirely that surprising is it?"

"Alex," he exhaled, before sputtering in a tailspin, "I had, I mean, if I had, I uh, I don't know what I would have done, but I guess - "

"No," Eames smiled shaking her head, "I don't imagine it could have worked out any other way. Honestly, I didn't trust my feelings in the beginning," Eames paused and cast her eyes downward, "you already know that when we first started out, I didn't quite _get_ you. I mean, even then, you were handsome - a little too cocky for my personal taste, but not in a bad way."

He leaned in and kissed her forehead, "I could never have imagined that I could have this."

Eames raised her right eyebrow, "have this?"

"True love."

"Must be kismet," Eames professed before planting a kiss on his shoulder.

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

For those concerned about this first sexual experience, (one that took too long to write), please don't fret about Goren lying to Eames. It's going to take time before he starts sharing, you know? And no one, and I mean _no one_ should worry about Goren's lack of performance. Obviously, he's been left in a room with Eames. They will no doubt take advantage of this situation and get very little sleep. So use your imagination - it will be faster than my lame attempts to write the rated M stuff. Now on to getting them back on the job! More Eames and latex - so to speak.


	14. Chapter 14

_Chapter Fourteen_

* * *

><p>Apartment of Robert Goren, 1115 E. 96th Street, Brooklyn, Monday, June 27<p>

* * *

><p>Goren woke up in a great deal of discomfort. Sharp pains radiated from his right arm when he made even the slightest of movements. Even when he lay completely still, he couldn't shake off the ever present low throbbing ache.<p>

The clock on his nightstand confirmed that it was nearly three in the morning. And even in his state of utter grogginess, he was able to deduce that he'd forgotten to take his pain meds.

Edging off the bed, he peered over at his partner of twelve years. Eames lay fast asleep, curled up on her right side. Even in sleep, she was devastatingly beautiful. Fuck, if he didn't feel so blasted awful, he'd love to wake her up - even with the practical understanding that they would need to start their morning commute to work in at least four hours.

He took a deep breath, realizing that his next movement was going to send shooting pains up his arm.

Moving quickly to the bathroom, he held on to the bathroom sink and steadied himself as the pain subsided to slow but steady beat. Using as little motion as possible, Goren pulled one pill out of a sealed plastic baggie. Yes, a plastic bag - he'd broken the original prescription container (the one with the child safety lock) during a fit of frustration after realizing how fucking difficult it was to open the safety cap with one hand.

Before turning back to bed, he stared back at his reflection in the mirror. He would need to shave before work. Squinting slightly, Goren couldn't help but notice that his cheeks were somewhat gaunt. Truth be told, he'd lost weight this year - sadly in his face and legs but not where he preferred to drop the majority of the bulk. Not surprisingly, the impetus to trim down came after a severe scolding from his general practitioner.

But even after making some life changing habits: cutting out soft drinks, eating more vegetables combined with drinking more water, he was still going to have to drop fifteen pounds before he got down to the weight he'd maintained for most of his adult life. He'd never been slender, always had a bit of a pouch - but for the most part, weight management had been relatively easy with his nearly 6' 5" frame.

Pulling away from the mirror, he felt another shot of pain shoot up his arm. _Fuck._

Goren decided that until the medicine kicked in, he would wait it out in his armchair. Bracing himself for another jolt, Goren picked up his copy of _Building Modern Criminology. _before easing himself into his chair.

* * *

><p>One Police Plaza, Monday, June 27<p>

* * *

><p>Come Monday morning, Goren and Eames were both visibly exhausted.<p>

Earlier, on their morning commute, Goren was able to explain his need to sleep in the armchair. Afterall, it was their first night together, and he could only imagine that she might be a touch irritated when she woke up in his bed alone.

After that somewhat awkward explanation, Eames seemed to shake it off like it was no big deal.

And should that really have been so surprising, considering all their years together on the force? It was nearly a routine: Eames nodding her head before moving on to the next task at hand – almost like she seemed to understand. That, or in this situation, it was still too early in the morning to have it out.

A weeks worth of time had passed since they'd sat across from one another at their desks. The trip to Indiana, the time off . . .

Goren and Eames furiously rifled through paperwork in unison as they both downed coffee. For the amount of sleep he'd gotten last night, it was hell trying to make sense of all the shit that had piled up on his desk.

A headache was starting to settle in his temple, a strange fucking pulsing (_bum – ba – ba – bum – bum)_ that actually seemed to be in synch with the low throbbing in his arm. At this moment, he needed to remind himself that having sex with Eames was well worth the mind-numbing headache and chronic low grade pain in his right arm.

Reorganizing his desk from left to right, not more than five minutes passed before captain Hannah waved them into his office.

"My, my," Hannah frowned, "I gave you guys an extra few days to get it together, but you look miserable."

Hannah rummaged through his desk looking for a file, "Hmmmmm. Actually Eames, you just look tired," Hannah shot Goren a look, "but you old friend, you look like you might need a few more days."

"I'm fine captain," Goren bristled, irritated that Hannah could play it all casual – while for Goren, there was certainly no reciprocity without recourse.

Instead of directing any response back to Goren, Hannah eyeballed Eames. It was as if the captain was looking for any expression or gesture that might conflict with Goren's answer.

_Asshole. She's got my back._

"Okay," Hannah cleared his throat and flipped through the what appeared to be the Dwyer file, "looks like we might be picking up Mr. Dwyer in the next few days. Time to build our case, so we can indict and get things rolling on course for the eventual trial."

"Um," Eames rubbed her forehead, "so Dwyer's already been indicted in Indianapolis?"

"I guess Dwyer's made a lot of press in those parts, well, nationally too," Hannah explained, "and I don't think Indianapolis gets nearly the amount of traffic NYPD does. So, they are, you know pushing him through the system, and quickly."

Hannah smirked slightly before continuing, "And thanks to the two of you, they've got evidence up to the ceiling."

Eames nodded, biting her bottom lip while rubbing her left thumb and forefinger together. Goren understood this gesture to indicate that she was starting to stress.

"Do you need me to assign more team players?" Hannah inquired, "You _know_ this one is a priority – and when it comes down to state's sharing the responsibility of getting justice for the victims of a serial killer, well you know, not that it's a competition or anything – but this one is in the national spotlight, complete with the likes of CNN, MSNBC, Fox News and the rest of the media hounds."

"Don't forget Faith Yancy," Goren mumbled under his breath.

"Who could?" Eames rolled her eyes before turning her full attention to Hannah, "we're fine captain. What's the time frame?"

"Forty-eight hours," Hannah relayed, "so if you need help, don't hesitate. And have our admin book your flights for Thursday morning, with a turnaround that evening. Don't forget that you'll need an extra seat on the way back."

Eames nodded, taking the file from Hannah.

Raising both her eyebrows, she held the captain's door open for Goren, "Okay, here we go."

Once they returned to their desks, Eames pulled in close, gesturing towards one of the conference rooms, "Let's put our game plan together."

Goren fought off another irritating yawn and followed her into the one of the conference rooms. He deduced that she needed privacy in order to discuss a few items that the squad room certainly didn't need to be privy to.

"Are you up for this?

Goren nodded, "let's finish what we started."

"I didn't want to, um, you know, in front of Hannah."

"I know," Goren sighed while sitting down, "So, let's see, we've got the original file from the 2-7, we've got the full Medical Examiner's report. Now, it's time to go through that pile of physical evidence they have logged in downstairs."

"Carver's going to want us to dot our i's and cross our t's," Eames bit down on her lower lip, deep in thought, "so, we could split up to save time?"

"Uh, so you want to trek down Dwyer's living quarters and see if he made any other acquaintances during his New York trek?"

"You don't think it's worth it to split up."

"I don't," Goren tried to scratch at the back of his hair with his left hand, wincing slightly in the process, "I know we'd cover more ground, but – I - "

"You don't think we'd be as effective," Eames finished his thought before adding, "Bobby, when is your next doctor's appointment?"

"Wait, I-uh," he knit his brows, "I-I _thought, _you know like we spoke about on the way over, uh, that we were going to leave the personal stuff out of it. Nothing personal once we stepped out on the job."

"But this has to do with the job," Eames justified, "I need to know how fit you are. Will you be able to come to Indianapolis? Should I tell Hannah we are going to need an extra hand?"

Maybe it was the physiological effects of the fracture, or perhaps it was the lack of sleep (still very well worth it in his mind) but for fuck's sake, her last sentence made him furious.

"My doctor's appointment is on Friday, and my psyche session with Gyson is Sunday. So," Goren's tone remained unusually high and very much impassioned.

"We, uh, we've been through this before, and uh," Goren continued, "You're just going to have to trust me. You know?"

Eames brought both of her hands to rest on the back of her head.

"You know?" Goren posited, shaking his head in frustration before turning around to leave the room, "I'll be back, uh, when you have the game plan down."

And one thing was certain; it was going to be a long fucking day.

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	15. Chapter 15

_Chapter Fifteen_

* * *

><p>On route to Indianapolis, Thursday, June 30<p>

* * *

><p>Eames was asleep.<p>

Goren was suitably drugged. Sitting to her right, he was determined to, but unable to fall asleep.

Since their original trek to and from Indianapolis, Eames had been too wrapped up with work and her father's health to be Goren's personal barometer.

Goren had been too stubborn to admit that his health was going south.

And all the while Captain Hannah was driving the whip.

It was the perfect storm.

* * *

><p>Consistent to the core, Eames (the adorable workaholic that she was) had taken on her newfound responsibility as sacred duty.<p>

And in typical devotion, Goren found himself heavily vested: for the puzzle of course - and more importantly, for her. Applying himself with each passing opportunity, his hulking frame shadowed his partner's every move.

It was a familiar concept, one that would not shock his therapist in the least: when Hannah tightened the screws, Goren, while seemingly lost in the puzzle, found that he would do anything to ensure his partner's success.

Therefore, Gyson had been right all along. And Goren had known it – known it for years.

Indeed, twelve years was more than enough time to see beyond his partner's strong and very beautiful exterior.

From past experience, Goren understood that his partner had always been more practical, savvy and diplomatic. And in his mind, Eames carried the very qualities one must universally admire and respect: her very being was entrenched with an unmatched work ethic, not to mention an unusual fierceness when it came to loyalty.

Loyalty. Her devotion towards him was unlike anything he could ever have expected to experience.

And her desire to protect him? All along it had been her Achilles' heel.

And once again, when they played their prospective roles, standing opposite one another in one of the many dark cement tiled rooms on the eleventh floor, he knew that he should have stood down. He should have told her that he was starting to have doubts about his health and abilities. It was much more than an educated hunch that his arm hadn't set properly and that he may very well require reductive surgery.

And when she'd inquired after his fitness, he responded by asking for her trust. Yes. He went there.

Even knowing with intimate detail how she'd react. Understanding that he'd painted her into an emotional corner, one he knew that she'd never attempt to turn from.

How many times had he done this before in their relationship?

Oh and ridiculous amounts of self-loathing that ensued. It was a whole new level of wretchedness: the very same feelings that gnawed at his heart when he pimped out information on his family.

Only the situation with Eames was incrementally worse, because his family never had his back.

Had he hated himself afterwards? Absolutely. And in the process, he purposefully denied himself all sorts of pleasures - save stealing a smoke, drowning in another glass. Caught in a self-destructed stupor as he tried to solve the most pressing puzzle of all.

Why?

Why did Eames have a soft spot for him?

_Gyson shook her head, ". . . Or how did you say it? That sticking with you for all those years isn't an easy thing to do? Why then? Why is she still by your side?"_

_"I-I don't know," Goren flinched, "Honestly, I have no goddamned idea."_

_"Well then," Gyson suggested, "you should ask her."_

_Gyson must have seen the mortified look spread rapidly across his face, for she quickly added, "I have a feeling Alexandra understands that there is so much more to you than your job."_

Perhaps he shouldn't wait, perhaps he _should_ simply ask her.

And with a jolt, the plane touched down. Eames woke up instantly, the fingers of her right hand purposefully running down the material of his suit jacket sleeve.

She made contact, fingertips brushing the skin just above his wrist, between his thumb and index finger. And like a spark of electricity, this simple touch sent waves of sensation through his nervous system. He turned his head towards her, trying to meet her eyes as a sharp wave of desire spread through his groin.

"You okay?"

He nodded, while he busied himself by collecting his cell from the storage below the tray table, "let's go get our boy."

"Shit," Eames murmured under her breath.

He paused, moderately disturbed by watching her expression slowly transform as she checked her voice messaging.

Switching his own phone out of airport mode, it beeped back at him angrily, informing him that he too had several new messages to attend to.

"Pretrial detainees," Eames shook her head, "looks like our boy tried to find the easy way out."

"Uh, so he's on suicide watch?"

"Yup," Eames spoke quietly, "they found him trying to hang himself from the upper bunk, uh-huh, about ten minutes into our flight. He's in stable condition, um, being treated by DOC medical facilities," she paused before adding, "looks like he'll pull though."

"Will he be in condition to travel?"

"I guess we'll find out more when we get to DOC headquarters."

"He was isolated from the others, uh, for his protection of course," Goren played out the scenario in his head, "knowing for certain that he was going to be transferred into our hands this afternoon. But for Dwyer, I mean, uh, it's early morning, most likely right around the shift changes, so uh well - it appears that there's something that he doesn't want to leave behind. Uh, he's afraid, you know?"

"Captain's gonna be thrilled," Eames arched an eyebrow, collecting her personal items as they prepared to de-board the plane, "and I don't know about you, but I don't have an overnight bag nor a real change of clothes for that matter."

As they stepped off the plane and into the now familiar terminal, Goren was relived that this time around, save a small band of press that had gathered, detective Buckley wasn't part of their welcoming committee.

Hailing a cab to the Department of Corrections, Goren couldn't help but wonder what this second trip to the mid-west might bring.

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	16. Chapter 16

_Chapter Sixteen_

* * *

><p>Department of Corrections, 202 West Washington Street, Thursday, June 30<p>

* * *

><p>Goren popped another pain pill and washed it down with the bottled water he bought from a vending machine.<p>

He turned around one hundred and eighty degrees, quickly locating his partner.

Eames was in the same position she was before he popped the pill - still fully indisposed with her ear pressed against her cell; thoroughly engrossed as she updated their status to Hannah.

Several paces to the right of the vending machine, Goren spied the attending physician that had briefed them on Dwyer's condition. Using his imposing size and several choice interrogation techniques, Goren quickly cornered the stout doctor in a shallow door well at the far end of the corridor.

"So, uh, I know you've confirmed Dwyer will be ready for transportation," Goren grilled the unsuspecting doctor, "you know, provided he's kept from harming himself in these next twenty-four hours."

"Well, um, sure, just as I relayed to you and detective Eames, and um, in my report. Of course provided that no other complications present themselves."

"Other complications meaning what? Uh, because you know, I mean come on, he's on twenty-four hour surveillance," Goren chuckled, "handcuffed to his bed, uh doctor, doctor – "

"Doctor Keller, Michael Keller."

"Michael," Goren shot his left hand forward to grasp the doctor's tentative hand, "and uh, I'm sorry I didn't catch your name while you were briefing my partner."

Dr. Keller nodded distractedly, as if his full focus was set on how he could get Goren out of his personal space, not to mention the heavy cast that periodically loomed inches away from face as Goren gestured wildly.

"Was it your radius or ulna?"

Goren tried to laugh casually, but it came out sounding more forced than he liked, "both actually – no thanks to your patient."

"Oh, I see," it was as though a light bulb went off in Keller's head, "you are _that _detective."

"That's funny," Goren edged two inches closer, "you know, I hear that a lot. _That_ detective. And uh, going back to the state of my fracture, you know, well I'm inconveniently missing a doctor's appointment over this uh, fiasco. I'm still in a great deal of pain, you see and uh."

"When was the break?" Keller queried.

"Last Wednesday," Goren explained, edging back two inches now that the doctor was following his train of thought, "and there is this shooting pain that starts here and well, uh – "

"What did your doctor prescribe you for the pain?"

"Darvocet," Goren pulled a small plastic baggie from his suit jacket pocket and handed it to Keller.

Keller studied the tiny red pills and quickly determined the dosage, "every twelve hours?"

Goren nodded, turning his head slightly to keep track of his partner.

"May I?" Keller checked tentatively inspected Goren's fingers, "hmmm, if it were me – I'd see someone about this. You'll need an x-ray at minimum – that and well, whoever sees you is going to need access to your chart, that is original notes regarding the area of impact so that they might compare changes in the swelling over time. Have you been running a fever with the darvocet?"

Goren's heart skipped a beat, from the corner of his eye he saw Eames headed his way, "uh, no, no fever, but you think I need to go in at this point."

"Absolutely."

"W-will I need surgery?"

"There's no way I could say without – '

"Okay," Goren patted Keller on the shoulder before quickly turning around to face his partner.

Eames raised her eyebrow while nodding her head in Keller's direction, "we're staying overnight per the doctor's report," Eames paused again, thumb and forefinger navigating the face of her smart phone, "the Marriott's close, but I'll bet the Westin is more affordable."

"How'd the captain take the news?"

Eames smiled tightly, "Hannah doesn't want to see either of us without Dwyer."

Goren nodded, "that sounds like Joe."

"Did you," Eames queried, "did you shake down anything new?"

"Maybe," Goren hesitated, feeling uncertain of how he wanted to approach the advice he just received regarding his arm, "uh, I'll fill you in over – "

"Detective Eames!"

Goren looked over his partner's shoulder. It took him less than two seconds to recognize the annoyingly handsome mug of detective Daniel Buckley.

"Alex," Buckley smiled broadly in his partner's direction, giving Goren the bare minimum quick nod of acknowledgement.

"Hi Daniel," Eames smiled warmly, accepting Buckley's exuberant handshake.

Goren nodded his head towards Buckley while simultaneously pulling a stick of cinnamon flavored gum from his trouser pocket, "nice to see you again detective."

"How's that arm treating you?"

Goren wedged the piece of gum in his mouth and slowly counted to ten, a forced smile plastered on his face.

"Um," Eames interjected, "it's nice to see you. As you've probably heard, we're stuck here overnight," Eames maximized her google maps window before adding, "I was just in the process of finding a hotel within walking distance."

"You'll want the Marriott of course," Buckley nodded towards the front entry, "it's got the best accommodations by far, and it's definitely within walking distance. I'll take you over now if you'd like."

"By all means," Goren grumbled, the warm humid air clung to him as they exited the building. Goren swung his suit jacket over his shoulder and tried not to think about the low throbbing pain in his right forearm, his fingers were swollen and the heat wave wasn't helping one bit.

"Thank you," Eames broke into a grin, pulling off her light wrap - an action which only succeeded in revealing a fitted blue tank top and her amazingly toned upper body.

"Look," Buckley paused mid-stride, "I've got an hour before I need to head back to the precinct, um, but I'd love to get you guys situated with something to eat, and then, well, maybe you can enjoy a little of the downtown nightlife before you head back tomorrow."

"Well," Eames started hesitantly, "neither of us was prepared for an overnight stay, maybe we could all meet up later once we've gotten settled."

"Oh, sure thing," Buckley affirmed, "just buzz me when you're looking for something to do or eat for that matter."

Buckley flashed his very best smile at Eames. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that Buckley was making every effort to come on to his partner. And it was certainly rubbing Goren the wrong way, even though he shouldn't be jealous at this point. Altogether, Goren would be lying to himself if he didn't admit that he hadn't felt this irritable since Eames got chummy with detective Peter Lyons. That awful little signing detective, who in his humble opinion, had a lot more fucking substance than small town Buckley.

_Fuck. What did he know anyway?_

Once they arrived at the Marriott, Goren got comfortable in the hotel's foyer while Eames haggled with the check-in attendant. His partner had her adorable peculiarities: for one, she certainly liked to drive - almost as much as she loved putting her Inwood charm to work on an unsuspecting mid-westerner. Concealing the smile that was growing on his face, Goren sat forward in the upolstered armchair as he pulled out his leather binder. Thumbing to the back section that held his calendar, he crossed out the doctor's appointment that had originally been scheduled for today. Turning the page forward to July, Goren confirmed that he'd re-scheduled the doctor's appointment for the following Monday. The pain in his arm, not to mention the advice he received from Keller, helped reinforce in his mind that his Monday reschedule was way too far away. _Damn. Saturday was Eames' birthday._ Sunday was his weekly meeting with Gyson.

_Eames' birthday! He might be feeling miserable now, but he'd better pull it together to make her day special, especially now that they were more than just partners. Eames would be turning forty-four, and yes, that meant he'd be fifty by the end of August._

_Fifty fucking years old._

Closing the leather binder, Goren pulled out his copy of _Building Modern Criminology_ and was just starting to block out the entire affair when he heard Eames voice carry from the check-in station. She was clearly on the defensive, he saw it when he craned his neck around the back of the chair, finding himself thoroughly engrossed in their body language.

Buckley's body was open towards Eames, his right arm formed an upper-case L and rested confidently on the check-in counter. Eames body was facing the counter, turned slightly away from her eager courter, her left hand held high as if deflecting or declining an offer. Goren felt hopeful, but remained low-profile, as this was clearly an arena he wished to stay out of.

He felt his stomach twinge. Could it simply be hunger? He'd started feeling lousy hours before their early morning pre-flight. His arm, throbbed constantly, and in all honesty, he was having a hard time focusing when a) he felt generally awful and b) his partner was being hounded by some young buck.

Goren hadn't slept with Eames since Sunday. Work had conveniently taken over, and he'd lied to her about his fitness, a condition which seemed to be mounting in the wrong direction with every passing day. A condition which had a way of making him much less interested in sex – and yes, that should have been his first warning flag.

Without warning, Buckley snuck up on him while he was busy digesting through a chapter on_ the dynamics of oscillatory punishment processes_.

"Interesting read?"

Goren nodded.

"You um, you need something to drink? They have a bar in the lounge and you look like maybe, I don't know, like the humidity took it right out of you."

"Thank you," Goren managed, "I'll check it out later."

"You're partner, um," Buckley spoke in a hushed voice, "she's something else."

"True," he mumbled ineffectually. Most guys might have been tempted to posture, or let their testosterone take it up a notch. Perhaps it was because he was feeling crummy, or maybe it was because deep down inside he empathized with Buckley. For years he'd pushed his feelings aside, romantic and otherwise. So much so, that when it finally came time for Goren to reveal his true feelings to his partner, he was little more than a blathering idiot.

"Can I ask you something?"

Goren nodded, all the time being relatively certain he knew what Buckley was about to ask.

"Is she seeing anyone?"

"Yes," he answered firmly, nothing fierce, just firm.

Impeceptibly, Buckley's face fell slightly, only a fraction really, but enough for Goren to feel almost bad for the guy.

"Is it serious?"

"Look," Goren closed the heavy text with his left hand, using his thumb as a bookmark, "I'm not going to get into the middle of this. You should know that it's not my place, uh and – and you should, you know, ask her."

It was sage advice, he though derisively. Bullshit really. Bullshit because _he_ was the one offering up advice that he himself clearly failed to practice.

* * *

><p>When they finally got to their room, Eames plopped onto the far queen size bed and closed her eyes, "this is truly Kafkaesque."<p>

"Uh, you mean the situation with Dwyer?"

"Totally. Have you ever?"

"No. I guess not," Goren admitted, "not while on a long distance trip."

"We were ten minutes shy of getting the phone call. And now," Eames sighed, "I'm overnight without a change of clothes or a toothbrush for that matter."

"We can hit a drugstore after dinner," Goren offered, "it's likely this place has a laundry service. But if it doesn't work out, Dwyer is going to be the most affected."

Eames rolled her eyes, "with this humidity there are going to be a lot more people affected than Dwyer."

Goren smiled softly as he awkwardly edged the suit jacket off his shoulders, tentatively working it around his cast.

"I know we haven't had a lot of personal time together," Eames pointed out casually, "I mean outside the framework of our jobs."

Goren plopped down on the bed closest to the door and pulled at the knot of his tie, "the job was never conducive you know? And for us, I mean, uh, it's never going to be easy to draw lines between work and play."

"Speaking of play," Eames propped herself up on her elbows, "I've been harboring some very non-work-like feelings about you."

Goren tried to appear nonchalant, but based on her current expression; he must have given something away.

Inside he was very much at odds with their unique situation, wishing things could have been different. With one swing of a bat, Dwyer had taken away Goren's ability to really enjoy his first sexual encounters with Alex. So at any given time, Goren might be experiencing several different grades of pain depending on the range of activity and the time between taking pain medication. So yes, it took volumes of energy to appear like he wasn't feeling like shit. Currently, he was beyond tired, hoping that she wasn't going to want more than a gentle snuggle.

Alex sat up, studying him quietly, her face looked serene at first, but slowly started transforming into something that bordered on severe, "is something wrong?"

"Uh, how do you mean?"

"Damnit," Eames stood up and walked quickly to her small carry-on bag, "I should have known."

He was too tired to fight her, and what was the point, really? He'd fucked this one up more than he'd like to admit, "I didn't know entirely."

"Know what?"

"Know that I'd – "

Eames picked up her cell phone and approached him, placing the back of her right hand on his temple. She felt her own forehead before making a final comparison. He didn't fight her off as she gently inspected the area around his cast, first his fingers before moving to the top edge of his forearm.

"How long?"

"Look, I didn't know exactly, but I just, well you saw me, I asked Dwyer's attending physician, uh, Keller, I asked him about it this afternoon."

"You used 'entirely' and 'exactly,'" Eames angrily shook her head, "but I'm pretty sure that _I'm_ the idiot."

"I-I'm sorry?"

"I'm an idiot for believing that you've changed," Eames sputtered, "or, um, that you've come a long way from the same person who put themselves undercover on more than one occasion with disastrous results."

"Let's not go there."

"Oh, don't worry, I won't go there. I don't need too. You can continue to function in whatever way works for you. I, on the other hand, need to understand why I've let you manipulate me on multiple occasions," Eames sighed and folded her arms together tightly, "you know, I've been running into a brick wall for years now, under the presumption that if I just kept showing you that in all things: I've got your back, that I trust you, respect you - you know, love you, that somehow you'd understand that there could _and should_ be reciprocity."

"Eames, please."

"No, I don't need any explanations. I need actions. Get yourself to a doctor, fly back if you need to – just do something honest for once," Eames groaned before her face turned achingly vulnerable, "I already have it for you, okay? You don't need to play any goddamned games!"

"Alex, listen, uh," he paused, "I would do anything, you need to know – "

"Stop," she whispered, her hands bracing the back of her neck, "don't call me Alex, that's not fair - you've, I mean, don't you see what you do to me?"

Goren felt his heart wrench, something that hurt more than his arm ever had. He stood up shakily and picked up his phone, wallet and watch as he head for the door.

Calling for a cab, he rested his hand on the door knob, eyes roaming over the emergency exit "in case of a fire" information placard.

"You're going to wait in the lobby?"

Goren strode towards her, eyes cast downward in shame.

When her expressioned softened, (softened enough that he knew she was okay with him entering her personal space), he wrapped his left arm around her, pulling her in tight. She was shaking slightly too. He pressed a kiss onto the top of her head.

In a soft tone, he spoke above her right ear, "it's okay Eames. I'll call you from the hospital."

She nodded into his chest.

He held onto her tightly, breathing in her scent while her heartbeat raced against his mid-section. Minutes passed by as they stood quietly entwined.

Releasing her as he felt her pull away, Goren turned and walked away, careful not to look back.

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	17. Chapter 17

_Chapter Seventeen_

* * *

><p>Office of Dr. Paula Gyson, 931 Broadway, Sunday, July 10<p>

* * *

><p>"Well detective," Gyson settled comfortably on her designer chair, predictably with her legs folded beneath her, "it's been two weeks and," she paused as she gestured towards his right arm, "new cast. New color too."<p>

Goren nodded, absently wiggling his right fingers, "I'm uh, sorry. Sorry I had to re-schedule last weeks appointment."

"Well," Gyson inclined her head slightly, "as you probably know, your partner called me the Friday before your appointment to let me know that you were having complications with your affected arm."

Goren sat down across from Gyson, "Yes, uh, I had surgery, it wasn't, you know, healing properly. The bone had to be reset."

"But things are better now?"

"Uh, the pain medication is now adequate and," Goren settled back in his chair and rubbed his bottom lip, "y-yeah, so the pain is controlled."

Gyson briefly squinted her eyes, a look of confusion briefly crossing her face before being replaced by a smile of understanding, "I see."

"You were," Goren started slowly, again finding it difficult to be the one to initiate conversation in this setting, "you were right about the frustration, you know? I made some mistakes, uh, selfish choices in the past week, um, especially in regards to the arm, er uh, the injury. I guess my judgment was off-base."

"Hmmmm," Gyson leaned forward and held his gaze, "last time, that is, in our last session, we talked about, or rather I asked you to work on putting your needs first. So, when you say that you were selfish, how can you be sure that you weren't putting your needs first, you know, in a healthy way – or making a better choice for Robert Goren?"

"Oh I'm certain," Goren laughed nervously, "I made a choice to do something that only served to a-assuage my fears. Well, uh, that and the job, you know, I-I made it more important than anything else in my life."

Gyson folded her hands in her lap, waiting patiently for him to elaborate.

_And in essence this was all about trust; they'd met for nearly ten sessions. What he said in this room couldn't affect his job. So why was it so fucking hard?_

"You made a choice?" Gyson prompted.

"My arm," Goren held up his cast, "last week the pain was uh, you know, intense, uh, getting to the point that it was interfering with work and I should have had it looked at. I-I mean I don't know if I could have avoided the surgery," Goren sighed before concluding, "I don't know. Maybe I could have."

"What prevented you from having someone look at it?"

"I did. I-I didn't want to listen. I wanted things to be as if it never happened. I just wanted to work, you know?"

"You're clearly upset about this," Gyson pondered, "which given your explanation seems extreme. Your choice not to see a doctor and push through the pain seems to be a common theme amongst many individuals, notably men."

He immediately lowered his gaze, biting anxiously at his upper lip, the anger starting to build.

"Well," Gyson proposed, "these could very well be perfectionist tendencies, which would make some sense. And when considering your background, I mean, perhaps you hold yourself up to an unusually high standard?"

"Trust, anger and now perfectionism?" Goren laughed angrily, "come on, what else?"

"Well," Gyson delved, "let's go back one step and build upon the idea that your job means everything to you. Consider this: what would Robert Goren be without his job? Without his career path? For instance, is this coming out of the need to prove something to yourself?"

"No," Goren glowered, "I'm good at what I do. Uh, i-it's what I do best, reading people – and manipulating them. An yes, it comes naturally, you know: getting inside them, figuring out the puzzle.

"Very much," Gyson considered before adding, "so say you were never given the opportunity to train at the academy, or never had a chance to solve all the puzzles. What would Robert Goren be doing today?"

"Without that track," Goren leaned in, enough that he was bordering on breaking into her personal space, "and with all of my talents?"

Gyson responded by shifting back in her chair, nodding slowly, slightly hesitant and defensive in her posture.

"I'd be one of the most dangerous sociopaths in the city. My father," Goren frowned, "uh, and I doubt _this_ fact wasn't in my chart, was a charming murderer and rapist. He raped my mother brutally, uh, triggered her illness."

And Goren knew in his heart that in some small way, what he'd revealed frightened Gyson, pushed forcefully against her line of questions. Instantaneously, he felt an array of competing emotions: one of guilt for coming at her in such a manner, fused oddly with and a kind of pleasure for being able to push her into an uncomfortable position now and again – tit for tat.

In direct response, Gyson stood up and walked over to her desktop, flipping through one of his files, "we spoke about your father, this is the father that made you cover for him? Took you to a women's house under the guise of letting you watch a ball game?"

"No, _that_ awful rake was the man my mother was married to. The serial rapist, on the other hand, _was_ my biological father. Which of course made my older brother uh, my unofficial step brother, and I-I was the second, you know the other son."

"How did you find out?" Gyson spoke barely above a whisper.

"From my mother, o-on her death bed," Goren felt his face twitch, his nostrils flare, his discomfort playing off of Gyson, "h-her answers were confirmation, uh, confirmation of facts I'd already started to piece together f-from a case I was working on. The DNA test proved it, you know, I-I had resources at my disposal."

"So," Gyson cleared her throat, "your mother, and perhaps even your father knew? And I'm sure there were subtle things - "

"And not so subtle things," Goren added, "like, my brother, uh, Frank. Frank was her favorite."

"So how did you deal with this perception?" Gyson paused, "And please, understand that when I say perception, it's not because I don't believe that you didn't accurately perceive the situation."

Goren laughed, "you want me to say that this is the impetus for my perfectionism?"

"I'm asking you to explore your feelings. Ask yourself, do you need to keep proving yourself? Doesn't this go to the root of the issues we've discussed in the past? Feelings of self-worth? Wanting to understand if it is still possible for you to have a relationship? Wanting to understand why your partner could have feelings for you?"

"And when I told you I'd be a criminal without this job," Goren sighed, a pained expression on his face, "you didn't deny my insight."

"I recognized your tatic for what it was," Gyson corrected, "a distraction, a ploy – an attack to help you take control of the conversation."

"Really?" Goren shook his head vigorously, "because one of the top profilers in the world, one who knew my background intimately, said that I could have gone either way."

"Do you believe that?"

"Absolutely."

Gyson shook her head in disbelief.

"You really can't believe it?" Goren stood up, also visibly agitated, "I mean, I'm the _son_ of a serial killer and a victimized mentally ill parent. _Schizophrenia_, is a genetic disease, and everyone knows it! Some verbalize it, others hold back, but everyone seems to agree that I'm the fucking mentally unstable genius, you know, the one that could have gone either way. The department whack job, and no, I'm not paranoid. I've had it pronounced to my face - from the son of a police officer to the Chief of Detectives."

"Detective Goren," Gyson raised her voice, "count to ten, sit down and listen to what I, yes I, a professional with all the clout behind me to reinforce it," Gyson gestured to the multiple diplomas on her wall, "has to say."

"Yes. You are challenging," Gyson offered, "a client I'm unlikely to forget. But I'm sure you remember our first session?"

Goren nodded before settling back down in his chair.

"In our first session you asked me if I thought you were crazy," Gyson continued, "and what did I say?"

Goren squared his shoulders, "you said something about how I was aware that the world is a dangerous place, that I'd found a way to survive but that my way made others uncomfortable."

Gyson smiled, "very good. And even now, since that session, I _understand_ that you are testing me, trying to decide whether you can trust sharing intimate information with me. Using techniques that you undoubtedly use in your job, techniques that make most people feel uncomfortable as you try to delve out the truth."

Goren sighed, edging back in his seat, mentally exhausted from sparring with Gyson.

"You've built up your defenses, your methods slowly over the years, so yes, it's tough to break old habits. But I know you see how this is affecting you. How it's taken it's toll on you. You've mentioned on multiple occasions that you want to know if you can have a relationship. Yes, you can, but you must learn how to function outside of the job. Develop a different side of your personality."

"It means something," Goren managed, "uh, means something that you don't think I'm crazy."

"Thank you," Gyson smiled. "It's also important to note that your partner, your most trusted friend doesn't think your crazy either."

"She uh, she doesn't, but she is uh," Goren paused, "she's uh, s-she's too close. She has feelings, uh, s-she's too close."

Gyson shook her head, "your partner is a veteran detective, she knows you better than anyone else; she _would _have to know, and she sounds like a very reasonable person – and nothing you've said about her in session has ever suggested otherwise."

"I," Goren stumbled, "I-I'm not suggesting she is anything but an outstanding detective. But, you know, it's personal, she lost her husband – she's been through a life altering experience. When it comes to perspective with me, she's, you know, fiercely loyal, she uh, she couldn't help herself, it's in her nature."

"I mean, uh, I-I came on as her partner shortly after her husband's death. I can only surmise that, t-that she displaced herself into her partnership with me. It was, i-it is a safe place. She, you know, she's never recovered. Uh, she dates sporadically, but she can't seem to make it work out, you know?"

"So you are saying that she's blind to you? Um, like a blind spot?" Gyson raised an eyebrow, "look, I can't pretend to understand the complexities of your relationship with Alexandra. However, what we can and what we _should_ focus on is you – and how to help you see that perhaps over time, some of your own perspectives have skewed slightly."

"Listen, Robert. You _will_ be able to hold relationships with others," Gyson added, "but you_ must_ trust others. And that entails that there needs to be a healthy reciprocity, sharing of intimate needs and feelings with one another. It's going to take work, lots of work, but it _can_ be done."

Goren nodded numbly, "I haven't been a two-way street, that's for sure."

"Well fortunately, that's something that you have control of." Gyson eyeballed her watch before flipping the page of her planner, "sadly, we've run out of time, shall I pencil us in for the same time next week?"

"Yes," Goren took a sip of water before standing up, "thank you."

"Don't be so hard on yourself detective," Gyson followed him towards the door, "perfectionism wears on the psyche. First off, you need to let go. Don't forget that you've been making good strides during these sessions," Gyson held open the door, pausing before she patted him lightly on his left shoulder, "And by the way, you look good: leaner and generally healthier than I remember from our past sessions."

Goren tried to smile, "thank you."

"I'll see you next week detective."

* * *

><p>Stepping out from Gyson's office, Goren felt a wave of disappointment when he didn't see Eames waiting for him curbside. He felt the undercurrents of emotion run through his veins - even though he had an inkling of where she was, namely, if he recalled properly: her nephew was having his first swim meet. It was one of the many milestones that Eames was loathe to miss. Given their intensive work schedule and close partnership, it was easy to forget that she had family, one that would pleasantly distract her from time to time.<p>

The past week went by like a blur: Dwyer had been successfully transported to NYC, rushed before a grand jury and easily indicted.

Goren had taken his vows to Eames seriously, consulting his local physician before having his arm re-set. In fact, he found himself in post-surgery the Saturday before, on Eames' birthday.

She'd shown up to his room, gift for him in hand: a balloon and popular summer read, _The Man in the Rockefeller Suit. _This simple act touched him. And rightfully so, Eames' consideration bordered on adorable when he visualized the event: Eames wandering in a bookstore, perusing the selections carefully to select just the right book. He could almost see her squinting - deep in thought as she read the back covers, a latte cradled in both hands.

As a temporary gift, Goren had charmed one of the nurse aides to pick out a red rose plus an art nouveau styled ceramic piece (from the gift shop) one that he insisted be filled with skittles.

Eames seemed pleasantly surprised as they exchanged gifts over his tray of narrowly picked-over hospital gruel.

And after being released from hospital, per Captain Hannah's orders, Goren was asked to take a week off with pay. An obvious punishment until he took the proper time to rest.

In the meantime, Eames inherited a case that on its face, appeared to be a murder-suicide. She'd been very busy, given that she was handed the lead without the aid of a partner. She called Goren every night, updating him, before picking his brain. And yes, it caused him much mental frustration for not being able to assist her, and be there for her physically. She'd worked six days straight, and had barely been able to finagle the day off to see her nephew in action.

Walking to the closest underground, Goren dug into his left hand pocket to pull out his metro card. And seconds before he was about to lose coverage, his cell vibrated in his opposite pocket.

"Goren," he answered only seconds before the call could be sent to voice mail.

"Do you want to check out a lead?"

"I thought you were at the meet."

"I'm just leaving now," she replied, "and he did very well. You can't believe how adorable it is watching seven and eight year olds race in a pool. Tiny little goggles and swim caps," she laughed.

"I bet," Goren grinned, "uh, I just left Gyson's office, uh, about five minutes ago."

"I figured," Eames paused, "so do you feel fit for a little detective work?"

"I'm in," Goren smiled, "I'll be at Shine Deli, corner of 21st, getting something healthy of course, you know, lots of antioxidants."

"Grab me a Caesar to go and a bottled water. I'll be there in thirty."

Goren felt the electric charge of excitement surge through his chest. It was the thrill associated with being handed a puzzle and a new opportunity. He felt empowered; Gyson confirmed that he could have a successful working relationship with another. And damned if he wasn't looking forward to seeing Eames - in more than one capacity.

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	18. Chapter 18

_Chapter Seventeen_

* * *

><p><em>"Do you want to check out a lead?"<em>

_"I'm in."_

* * *

><p>On route to Carol Michael's apartment, Sunday, July 10<p>

* * *

><p>"Carol was a family friend?" Goren thumbed through the case file using his cast to steady several loose reports as his partner parallel parked their police-issue SUV.<p>

Eames nodded, "Carol knew Jenny Rosen's mother, they were roommates at Columbia."

"Hmmmm," Goren worked at a dried cranberry piece that was wedged between his back molars with his tongue, "and what does your intuition tell you?"

"All along I've stuck by the murder-suicide theory," Eames put the SUV into park before unbuckling her belt, "there were all the signs, Ryan Hertzler had a history of substance abuse, Jenny was nearly half his age. And we both know it isn't difficult to gain access to a gun, especially for someone with his celebrity-like status."

"Hertzler took gold at the winter Olympics. Lake Placid right?"

Eames nodded, "Lake Placid, in um, maybe it was a skating event?"

"Some kind of downhill event," Goren squinted and leaned forward as he leafed through the rather thick case file, "yeah, but it seems like everything that year, uh, everything was shadowed by the hockey win, with the exception of that speed skater they kept putting on the Wheaties boxes."

"Eric Heiden," Eames cooed, "I was fourteen years old, and very much in love with his, ah whatever - he had amazing thighs."

Goren snorted, "I was much more struck by the lovely Nadia Comaneci."

"I remember her," Eames eyes lit up, "all of my friends wanted to be in gymnastics after they watched her routines.

"Nadya is derived from the Russian word for hope."

"Wow" Eames laughed, "you really were smitten."

"Teenage boy," Goren chuckled, "it was a great time to be smitten."

Ten minutes later, Goren found himself pitched forward in a tiny loveseat, trying unsuccessfully to make more room for Eames as he listened in on Carol Michael's take regarding the deaths of Hertzler and Rosen. The scent of fresh cut lilies contrasted against what appeared to be the smell of recently laid carpet.

"So," Eames probed, "you are certain there was foul play?"

"Without a seconds hesitation," Carol's rather dramatic personality became immediately evident as she emphasized her certainty by gesturing broadly in the air.

"It's like a conversation I had earlier with my partner," Goren slumped to his left, leaning away from Eames' tiny frame, feeling unusually self conscious about his size when confined to such a petite sofa, "she, uh, well let's put it this way, the Ryan Hertzler I knew wouldn't, you know, wouldn't do something like this."

Carol nodded emphatically, "exactly, exactly! Ryan may have had his ups and downs, but never, and I mean he would never do anything like this to Jenny. And she would, she wouldn't stand for it either. Jenny was his pillar - she kept Ryan in check.

"A pillar, or a crutch?" Eames challenged, "Ryan was on anti-depressants and we've had multiple witnesses that attest they'd seen him drinking heavily, and I don't mean O'douls."

"I can't believe it," Carol shook her head vehemently, "no, I don't believe it. Yes Ryan was a celeb, but you know those nasty paparazzi will do anything to push lies. Those filthy vermin, they'd sell their firstborn for a spread."

"Mixing anti-depressants and alcohol is deadly," Eames countered, "do you think he stopped taking his meds?"

"No! Never. That kind of behavior is so uncharacteristic of a world class athlete."

"I-I want to believe you Mrs. Michael. But you know, uh, my partner and I, for twelve years on the force, uh, we've seen a lot, but what we need is real proof, not conjecture."

"Twelve years?" Carol face brightened slightly, "that's a long time to be partners. Under the old New York law, you'd be common-law by now dear," Carol paused momentarily, carefully collecting her thoughts, "I guess, well, I guess I can't really give you physical proof. But you know detective Goren, it's in my gut. And you need to know when to trust your gut – that is, when to listen to your heart and not your overly rational head."

"Uh," Goren cleared his throat, "but you can't be ruled by your emotions, it's uh, it can be a very dangerous line to walk."

"You speak as though," Carol paused, "as though you speak from experience. And I can respect that," she added with great difficultly, "well, that is if you don't write off my insight on the matter."

"Insight into an investigation is always given impartial consideration," Eames offered as their interview came to a close.

On their trek back to their police issue SVU, Goren couldn't help but notice that Eames remained unusually pensive. After most interviews, once they were out of earshot that is, it generally followed that they would talk shop and compare notes. If the situation proved to be obvious, they might non-verbally signal to one another: a signal, a gesture, a kind of secretly language betwixt them.

But it wasn't until several minutes into the drive that Eames broke the silence, "you've been doing it a lot lately."

"I'm sorry?"

"I always knew before," Eames started, "knew when you were drawing from your skill set, your talents. It was all part of the game, or um, that mode you switch into when putting the puzzle together. But now I'm less certain, it's almost like your not playing anymore."

"Eames?"

"I know," Eames laugh was strange in pitch, almost hollow in essence, "I'm not making any sense."

Goren felt somewhat confused, he scratched unconsciously at the top of his head, before fumbling around for a stick of cinnamon gum in his pocket, "I, uh, I have a follow up appointment tomorrow, uh, but things are you know, I think I've got the handle on it," Goren paused while inspecting his casted right arm, "I shouldn't have to miss any more work after this appointment."

"That's good news, Bobby."

"Look, uh, you know you don't have to," Goren paused, "I'm not on your route, you can drop me at a - "

"Wait," Eames interrupted, her foot depressing the break a little unevenly, "we're still trying something right?"

Goren nearly choked on his cinnamon flavored saliva, managing to turn towards her to make eye contact, before croaking, "yeah, yes."

"You did the right thing. You got help, and you're still getting help."

He nodded, all along maintaining eye contact, trying hard not to become distracted by her loveliness.

And Eames stared right back, studying him quietly in return. She ran a hand through her beautifully flowing hair, all dark roots and light highlights gleaming in the afternoon sun, "Do you mind if we stop off by my place first?"

Goren shook his head, "no, uh, that's fine. But, uh, first off, I want to apologize for how I behaved. Uh, how I've behaved. It's been, well, uh, the communication, I've not always been forthcoming."

Eames nodded, her expression still difficult to read. Now, even as her eyes returned to the road, the only subtle tell was that she was chewing on her bottom lip.

Goren's mind wandered back to his therapy session from earlier in the day. The big takeaway points looming large in his head: 1.) in the end he wasn't crazy, and 2). if he was willing and open he could have a successful relationship with another.

What continued to elude him was why Eames had stuck with him over the years.

Okay, so say that she loved him. Why? Given his genetics and background, why?

And what if she'd attached herself to him because he'd been the next major long-term relationship after Joe. Was that okay too? Was this truly a healthy solution for Eames?

Gyson's words continued to echo in his head: _" . . . you should ask her."_

So before he could filter his thoughts, and perhaps because he'd been mulling the question over and over in his mind - he finally asked what he should have asked all along.

"Why?"

"Why what?" Eames replied.

And for a good five seconds, he sat in the passenger side in a stupor, wondering why he'd decided to broach the subject right here and right now, less than ten minutes from her apartment.

"It won't take long," Eames answered suddenly, "I just wanted to grab a few outfits for the week, workout stuff and a change of clothes for my locker at work, that way - "

"No, no, no," Goren stopped her before she could finish her explanation, "I uh, I meant why, uh, w-why do you," Goren hesitated again, "what is it you see about me?"

Eames came to an immediate stop, before turning on her hazards.

"You said, I-I mean you've said that I have this effect on y-you," Goren stuttered, "and I don't understand it, I want to, you know – I guess I need to understand w-what you see in me."

"Well, okay, let's see," Eames tapped her right fingers nervously against the steering wheel, "so you understand that I have feelings for you, and that you have an effect on me," Eames turned towards him, her expression changing as she surveyed the quizzical look on his face, "oh - I needed to pull over because I'm afraid I might get into an accident having this conversation."

Goren nodded, manically rotating a blue mechanical pencil between his left fingers.

I don't know that it matters," Eames considered, "I just, I simply feel this way about you."

Goren swallowed, the cinnamon flavor tickling the back of his tongue, "but I-I, I get, well – uh I know I'm good at what I do, I mean, uh we're good a-at this job."

"Bobby, you are the best partner I've had, the most talented and gifted detective at Major Case - "

"But the job. The job, it's everything," Goren mumbled, "but then there is the other me, uh, the one outside of work," Goren paused and stifled a nervous laugh, "a-and outside of work is this uh, accumulation of drama, you know - my family, my history, uh, and you know that it's written in my genes. A-and all the questions about my sanity," Goren shook his head slowly, "besides this job, besides you, I mean uh, everything else about me is basically undesirable."

"But you are wrong! The _job_ isn't everything," Eames struggled to find the right words, "maybe I've made it seem like it's everything, but it's just a job. And then there's you. And yes, part of my relationship with you is the job, but there's so much more. I mean we're partners, best friends - but then there's you, the you that is separate from the job. Damnit Bobby, we're so much more than this job. We've been through so much together."

"And you, uh, y-you d-don't think I'm crazy? You're not worried that someday, because of my family history - "

"I don't think you're crazy. And no, I don't care if some idiot thinks your crazy, or that someone believes that you are going to be crazy in the future. _I know_ who you are."

And in her words and gestures, in the way she looked into his eyes when she spoke to him, well, she left little room for doubt.

He laughed upon recollection of his latest session with Gyson, "she said as much."

"I'm sorry?"

"Nothing," he shook his head, "uh, come on, lets get to your place before NYPD tries to nab us for double parking."

"Forget the double parking," Eames cracked, "we need to get back to my place for more pressing reasons."

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	19. Chapter 19

_Chapter Nineteen_

* * *

><p>One Police Plaza, Friday, July 15<p>

* * *

><p>"Eames?" Goren mumbled on route from the fax machine, a mult-page report playing between his fingers as his eyes carefully scanned the document.<p>

Goren sat down with a plunk, his chair squealing under the sudden change in pressure.

From his sitting vantage, Goren's head swiveled from side to side, scanning the now sparsely populated eleventh floor. It was nearly a quarter past seven p.m., and wherever Eames had disappeared to, she was clearly out of ear range. This full and final (as opposed to preliminary) faxed report could mean a variety of scenarios. He turned a full ninety degrees to open his right hand drawer with his left hand, before sifting through several files until he found both Ryan Hertzler and Jenny Rosen's files.

"He wasn't taking his meds," Goren spoke aloud to no one in particular, flipping rapidly through the file, his index finger underlining Eames interview notes. And after twelve years, deciphering her unique shorthand was second nature.

Carol Richards had stated emphatically that Ryan was not the type to stop taking his meds. According to Eames' notes, Ryan's best friend, Kyle Donner, had sworn that Ryan was on anti-depressants.

Goren leafed to the end of the file, noting that multiple items of Hertzler's had been deemed evidence: all of which had been bagged, processed and could now be located in the enormous evidence-cluster-fuck of a filing system on the lower levels of 1PP.

And before she announced her presence, he could feel Eames' eyes gaze upon him, the scent of her fabric softener filled his nostrils. Well, fabric softener and something else . . .

"You don't have to hide them from me."

"Wait a minute," Eames scanned up and down her arms, "I don't get it, I washed like a goddamned surgeon."

"I don't mind," Goren laughed, "really. I don't even like candy, so uh, it's not tempting," he paused while placing the fax in the front of the file, "after all these years you should know."

Eames frowned, clearly stymied.

"It's on uh, you know," Goren pointed his mechanical pencil tip at her midsection, "you got the sour ones, they leave residuals, you must have unconsciously brushed them against your uh," Goren stopped pointing immediately as Eames discovered the infinitesimally small specks of off white color sprinkling the side of her jeans.

"They must have loved you at the academy," Eames grumbled.

Goren fought the urge to smile, her snarky ways never failed to entertain. And part of the humor could be found in the fact that she was trying so goddamned hard, (after she'd been privy to his health - she'd been trying to eat healthy with him), you know, trying to set a good example. It was adorable really, and hell, he'd lost nearly ten pounds with all the fresh salads and antioxidants she'd been shoved under his nose during this last month.

"So what's up with the file?" Eames nodded towards the explosion of paperwork on his desktop.

"Hertzler," Goren tapped the fingers of his right hand unconsciously on the edge of his desk, "you spoke with his shrink?"

"Client-patient privilege," Eames explained as she shook her head, "and with little to warrant a closer investigation – "

Goren held up his hand, nodding affirmatively, "look, uh, the full report is back from the M.E."

Eames tilted her head to the side, a frown steadily growing on her face, her hands folded tightly across her chest, "are we going to need a warrant?"

"Hertzler stopped taking his meds," Goren held up the report, "against all better judgment it seems, uh and considering that we can't interview the only other person who would know if he'd been prescribed said anti-depressants or why he went off - "

"Yes, he killed that particular witness," Eames sighed, "but without any other signs of foul play," Eames paused before adding, "you know Hannah wants this one filed away - and we've got two others on the burner."

"I don't need a warrant just yet," Goren held up his hand, "Not before digging around in evidence first. You bagged his prescriptions?"

Eames nodded, "but I don't remember the details, like whether or not they were currently prescribed."

Goren ran his left hand through the back of his hair, eyes distinctly lowered, "I think we should take another look at this one."

"Rodgers has two more freshly prepped," Eames bit down on her lower lip, heavy in thought, characteristically rubbing her thumb and middle finger against one another in a clockwise circular motion, "but, um, I'll hold Hannah at bay, tell him we've got more than just a hunch."

Goren nodded in appreciation, grabbed his leather file so that he could spend some quality time in locked away in evidence.

* * *

><p>Deep in the inner bowels of One Police Plaza was the place to be.<p>

The infernal heat wave had progressively become more oppressive with each passing day, so much so, that his single apartment AC unit was working overtime. Eames' apartment had central air, so it was just another brilliant excuse to hang out with her after work. Goren smiled when he thought of how nice it was to finally find shelter. A real shelter, one that provided him with all the unconditional love he desired, not to mention with someone whose track record proved that she was in it for the long haul.

Digging to the bottom of the evidence bag, Goren found the baggie that contained multiple prescription bottles.

Goren shook his head as he sorted through the multiple containers. For having an athletic frame, Hertzler was a sick man – especially when one considered the volume of medication that had been prescribed to the ex-athlete.

Picking through the multiple orange cylindrical containers, Goren found the anti-depressants of choice, a non-generic heavy weight known as Citalopram. The prescription bottle was over six months old and was still half full of tablets. The prescription called for Hertzler to ingest sixty milligrams per day. Goren realized he'd have to check the description in his 2011 drug handbook, but his intuition told him that this seemed like an excessive dosage. He studied the label, carefully noting the prescribing doctor and the number of refills assigned.

Goren sighed, he knew that Eames wasn't going to be pleased that this case was beginning to pull apart at the seams. She'd need more than his intuition to justify keeping the case open in regards to Hannah. But in his mind, the minor inconsistencies were enough to give grounds for taking a closer look. And who knows? Perhaps Carol Richards had been right all along.

By 9:38 p.m. he found her in one of the multi-purpose rooms that opened up towards the main floor. Eames was buried in stacks of papers, her computer resting on her lap, a highlighter and stack of sticky pads inches from her fingertips.

Eames sighed before he had time to present his findings. Damned if she didn't know how to read him like an open book.

"We need a warrant?"

Goren handed the offending psychotropic drug to her as he cracked open his hefty drug manual. Setting down besides her, he thumbed the book open to Celexa.

From his left hand trouser pocket, he pulled out a tiny white oval pill, "forty milligrams," Goren pointed out, "and if you look into that half-used container, you'll notice that - "

"Some of these are cut in half and," Eames paused, "I see, it's because he was prescribed to take sixty milligrams."

Goren nodded, "and sixty milligrams, uh," Goren cleared his throat, "is the maximum dosage any individual can be prescribed per day."

"So you're confirming that he was pretty depressed."

"There were no other prescription bottles on site?" Goren queried.

"I had CSI bag his full collection," Eames confirmed, "I knew you'd want them to grab everything."

Goren frowned, and tried not to become downright cranky about the irritating fact that he'd missed out on multiple days of work over the past month due to his fucking right arm.

"He couldn't possibly have been drinking with sixty milligrams in his system," Eames wondered aloud.

"The prescription is for six months ago, and as you know, uh, with all these psychotropics, uh, you've got to wean down."

Eames' eyes quickly lit up, "we should have seen some evidence in his blood stream, it would have taken months to clear his system."

"Forty milligrams is a maintenance dosage, uh in fact, it's more likely that they started him with twenty. In some cases its introduced in even smaller dosages. And, uh, so he'd have to come down in the same fashion. Someone, uh, I mean anyone would have noticed a big change, major withdrawal-like symptoms."

"Pretty tough stuff to miss," Eames agreed, "So, I guess it's time to have a chat with Dr. Wilson," Eames pulled out her cell and entered the ten-digit number, before grinning broadly, "do you think she'll just hand over all the info before she's served?"

* * *

><p>After leaving a voice message on Dr. Wilson's voice mail, they clambered home to her apartment, which in all honesty still felt a little strange.<p>

For years he'd been off to his own bat cave, a place where he would eat in silence - standing up half the time: a file at hands reach, several books cracked open – their spines creased and pages dog-eared.

Yes he'd been lonely, but more often than not, it was familiar – a routine he'd built his life around.

What was surreal, more surreal than reflecting on his past routines, was this unique opportunity to learn about his partner's day-to-day regiment. And there were all the little signs in Eames apartment, subtle, but telling – telling in that it was becoming quite obvious that she had grown accustomed to living alone too. Her cabinets were well organized, but on closer inspection: most multiple place settings were coated in a thin layer of dust from non-use.

Over the years, the contents of her apartment hadn't changed. Everything was a touch outdated, as if most items had been collectively put together at some point in the mid-nineties.

And the most difficult concept for him to wrap his head around revolved around the idea that, much like him, Eames had woven her life around the job. It was easy for him to understand why he'd built his life around work, but when he considered that Eames had the distractions of her family living close by, community ties and a nephew – well, it took him by surprise.

So after she slipped out of her work clothes, and he set down his stack of files and leather binder, they found themselves alone – very worn down from the day, silently trying to figure out how to unwind together.

Too exhausted to cook, they decided to eat out. Yes it was late, and yes, they were exhausted. But it was a Friday night after all, so why be cooped up inside? Even though the city was still emanating heat from its cement confines, they decided to explore together: dressed casually, strolling down the street shyly, his hand at times guiding her, even though it really was _her_ neighborhood.

As they strolled down the short city blocks, Goren found himself distracted by his partner's arms. Each pronounced muscle definition was highlighted by the glow of street lamps and the multi-colored storefront signage. Indeed, he never tired of seeing her in a tank top. Truthfully, she wore them better than any woman hands down.

"This place makes the best smoothies," Eames eyes lit up, "it's the real stuff, not just a bunch of sugar. They put whole pieces of fruit in these industrial strength blenders."

"Chock full of antioxidants," Goren smiled, "and right now," he wiped his brow, "I'm ready for anything that combines cold and liquid."

"If it gets any hotter," Eames agreed, "I might have to pull my miniskirts out of storage."

"Than lets bring this heat wave on," Goren chuckled.

Back at Eames' apartment, they'd long since finished downing smoothies, and were now comfortably settled on her sofa to munch on identical pre-prepped salad bowls.

"I've, uh, I gave my doctor a bit of a scare," he started.

Eames stopped mid-bite on a carrot stick.

"My cholesterol is down and, uh, well not to mention my weight," Goren paused, "and so, you know, when I told him I'd finally quit smoking, uh well, he asked if I – well, he wanted to know how I made such an abrupt turnaround."

"So you got your blood work back?"

Goren nodded, rolling a large tomato wedge through a small puddle of balsamic vinaigrette.

Eames slowly finished chewing on a portion of carrot before swallowing, "And?"

"It's good Eames. The PSA is in normal range, uh, on the higher end of normal, but normal."

And within seconds of his report, he watched the weight of the world ease off of her shoulders, her breath even and steady as her eyes smiled back at him.

"I know you were worried," Goren lowered his eyelids suddenly feeling strangely shy. It wasn't easy getting accustomed to someone caring so much about him. It was like trying on a new skin; something he liked immensely, while at the same time, it felt so damned foreign.

Post dinner, they fell into bed, exhaustion preventing either of them from entertaining anything remotely physical.

With eyelids closed, just as he was about to lose consciousness, Goren was suddenly struck by a strange detail he remembered from one of their cases at hand.

"Alex?"

"Yeah," Eames replied sleepily.

"Carol Richards has a daughter, or uh, maybe a niece."

"Yeah?"

"There was a photo on her mantle, uh," Goren turned his head towards Eames pausing briefly to breath in her scent, "of uh, of Carol and a young woman in her cap and gown. I'm fairly certain it was Columbia University's Teachers College in the background."

"Okay," Eames tried to stifle a yawn, before turning back towards him.

"The tassel color suggests that she graduated with a degree in the humanities, social sciences or art," Goren spoke softly, brushing an errant stream of hair out of Eames' face.

"Hmmmm," Eames mumbled, "all that from the tassel?"

"It was white," Goren confirmed, "and, uh, well based on a hunch, not to mention similar facial and body structure, I'd say the two women are related."

"So what does that have to do with the tassel?"

"I don't know exactly," Goren admitted, "but given a rough estimate on the age of Carol in the picture, the girl would probably be around the same age as Jenny Rosen."

Eames raised her left eyebrow.

"Do you think it's uh, odd, you know that she never mentioned that she had a daughter that was Jenny's age?"

"It's likely that they knew each other," Eames agreed.

Goren nodded slowly, the fingers of his right hand brushed against her cheek.

"I can't wait for you to get that off."

"Me too," Goren shrugged, laying his casted hand back across his chest. His mind was still running, but he could sense that Alex was shutting down for the night. No need to keep her stimulated at this hour.

"Good night Alex."

"Love you," she murmured back at him before curling back onto her left hand side.

And as she nestled against his side, he tried not to become caught up in the new puzzle at hand.

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	20. Chapter 20

_Chapter Twenty_

* * *

><p>Daniel's Bagels, 569 3rd Avenue, Saturday, July 16<p>

* * *

><p>Some things will hit you over the head like a two-ton brick, like the time when a highly intoxicated red head slammed her Louis Vuitton handbag square in his face, nearly re-breaking his nose. Indeed, this miserable incident occurred a few years back - during a particularly painful slump in his career when he'd been suspended without pay for six months. Regardless of the pay grade, proximity to single women and drugs, the life of a rogue bouncer was neither glorious nor even remotely desirable. One only consider the lack of health care, and well, getting smacked in the face.<p>

Meeting Dr. Ellen Wilson at Daniel's Bagels was just another one of those "hit you over the head" moments.

This was the same Dr. Wilson Eames had contacted on the phone just the day before - the very same doctor whose name was printed on the side of Ryan Hertzler's anti-depressant medication. A doctor they were determined to coax info out of before having to get the DA involved.

And even though he recognized Dr. Wilson immediately, (from the photo in Carol Richard's apartment), Eames hadn't been privy to the photo, so it was unlikely that she'd have a clue.

"Thank you for meeting us on such short notice," Eames sat down ahead of him, considerately offering Goren the chair with the most leg room, "this is detective Goren, and I'm a detective Eames."

Dr. Wilson inclined her head slightly, her focus clearly on her bagel and lox, "how can I help you?"

Goren laughed quietly, "uh, that's funny, you see, because uh, I thought you'd be the one seeking us out."

Eames blinked, her brows knit in concentration for a few seconds before her facial features evened out. No one would have noticed, but being a detective, (not to mention her best friend), he could tell that she was surprised by this somewhat aggressive line of attack.

Dr. Wilson set her bagel down and met his questioning gaze, "hmmm, you look strangely familiar."

"As do you," Goren tossed back evenly.

"Oh now I remember," Dr. Wilson dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin, "aren't you the cop that was suspended, or, no - something about you aggressively pursuing an innocent suspect, a situation which I recall ended tragically."

"Detective Goren has an impeccable record," Eames shifted forward in her chair, "NYPD's Major Case is at the top of the food chain. One doesn't get to stay at the top if they aren't the best of the best."

Goren held up his left hand to bring the tension and attention back on himself. Leaning his head towards her left ring finger he asked, "did you keep your father's name or your ex-husbands?"

Out of his peripheral vision, he saw Eames lean back in her chair, noticed her lips part slightly as the comprehension took hold.

"I've never been married detective," Dr. Wilson smirked, "but then again, you probably already know volumes of info about me from a mere Google search. So let's cut to the chase."

"You treated a patient by the name of Ryan Hertzler," Eames stated bluntly, "and considering what's been made public regarding the case, I'm surprised, like my partner mentioned, that you haven't come forward to assist in the investigation."

"Why intervene?" Dr. Wilson picked at the corner of her bagel, "from what's been made public, I thought it was a done deal. Murder-suicide. Isn't that familiar territory?"

"When an individual is prescribed Citalopram," Goren interjected, "and that individual is taking a maximum dosage of said drug, what is the protocol for check-ups, you know so that one might evaluate the dosage?"

"I have nothing to hide," Dr. Wilson contended in irritation, "and you know full well that my hands are tied."

"And you believe we won't be able to find an ADA to dance around your client-patient privilege?" Eames right eyebrow rose, punctuating her statement.

"Tell me about Jenny Rosen," Goren quickly rammed in his second line of questioning, a one-two punch he and Eames had mastered well, "just uh, how well do you know her?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Jenny was a family friend, right?" Goren leaned in several more inches, "as you said, you've got to know that we know more than what one can gather in simple browser search."

"Okay, so she's the daughter of my Mom's best friend. I mean, who cares, right?"

"She was about your age," Eames offered, "and she was married to your patient, Ryan Hertzler."

Goren read the hesitation in Dr. Ellen Wilson face, observed quietly as the sloping edge of her ears reddened slightly.

"You can get your court order," Dr. Wilson sat up abruptly, the contents of her mocha latte splattered the surface of the table as the flustered doctor turned on her heel before making a rather dramatic exit.

Eames smiled crookedly, "good thing I already called it in last night."

"I doubt we'll have to strong arm Hannah," Goren agreed, scratching at his chin as he stared at Dr. Wilson's half finished plate of bagels and lox, "let's get out of here before I make a poor nutritional choice."

* * *

><p>One Police Plaza, Saturday, July 16<p>

* * *

><p>On a Saturday afternoon, the floor was more quiet. Not surprisingly, Hannah was out of the office.<p>

Eames was wrapped up on her cell: leaving a message with both ADA Carver and Captain Hannah.

Goren was just starting to sort through a stack of faxed reports that lined his desktop, when he noticed a shift in his partner's body language.

Eames frowned, quickly moving her cell from her ear to in front of her face, the fingers of her right hand deftly interacting with her smart phone before she placed the receiver back up to her right ear.

He looked up and tried to make eye contact.

And while her focus was intent, she glanced back at him twice, a strong look of concern emanating from her expression.

Eames' eyes narrowed a second time, her body shuddered slightly as she pulled the phone from her ear before hanging up.

Goren waited patiently, understanding that she'd tell him as soon as she was ready.

Eames tilted her head to the right side, her voice lowered, "I just received a message from Hannah, um, well, I was in the process of leaving a message about the Hertzler – Rosen case."

Goren nodded quietly, a blue mechanical pencil playing between his fingers.

"Hannah wants us at Lenox Hill immediately, before the local precinct steps in," Eames paused, "the details are still fuzzy, but an M.E. will meet us en route."

Goren didn't have to decipher the seriousness of the situation, they were already one case over-booked anyway, well that was if you included the Hertzler – Rosen case being fully reopened. But when an NYPD payroll M.E. was being asked to meet the lead detectives on site, well, that was more than a priority call.

"Who is it?" he inquired quietly.

Eames pinched the bridge of her nose as her cell simultaneously buzzed and vibrated against her desktop, "one of ours."

Goren sighed, "well then, let's get to it."

* * *

><p>Lenox Hill Hospital, 210 East 64th Street, Saturday, July 16<p>

* * *

><p>The theme of the day inescapably appeared to revolve around either getting hit over the head, overwhelmed by a situation or an environment for that matter. Entering through the rotating doors of the side ER entrance, a wave of cool air was a welcoming change from the oppressive humidity. The reprocessed air produced by the hospital's churning generators came blanketing down, taking them from one extreme to the next. He could see the goose bumps on Eames' arms, and admittedly started to feel uncomfortably cold as the sweat that clung to his clothes started to evaporate.<p>

A young NYPD officer guided them to a heavily guarded closed-off room adjacent to the main ER wing.

"I hope you catch the bastard," the rookie whispered, her hand gesturing towards the frosted glass doors.

Groups of bigwigs convened in the corners, Hannah was in the far left hand corner of the room, busily engaged in conversation with one of the chief of detectives.

Goren felt Eames' hand round on his left elbow, guiding him swiftly past the politicos, and towards a light blue curtain that obscured the bodies. Plural. Yes, more than one.

The body on the left hand side struck him immediately, it uh, well, it fucking resembled her, you know, Eames: petite but wiry, high cheekbones and an adorable turned up nose. Her eyes, thank god, were closed. At this point, he didn't want to know whether the victim had soft beautiful brown eyes. The victim's hair was also a shade darker, no highlights, the length a touch shorter – but fuck, the similarities were there.

If Eames noticed the similarities, she certainly didn't let on. Rather, she seemed transfixed with victim number two, a man that looked to be in his mid thirties, with an attractive angular clean shaven face and dark curly hair. From Goren's vantage, an exit wound was clearly visible - protruded just to the left of the vic's larynx, indicating that the vic was most likely shot from behind.

"Jesus," Eames exhaled, as if she'd been holding on to her breath, "they're so young."

Goren nodded, barely able to tear his eyes away from the Eames-look-alike, "looks like he never even saw it coming."

Eames winced at the thought, steadying herself before pulling on her latex gloves. She moved immediately to several air-tight plastic containers that held the fallen detectives' personal effects.

"Ambushed," Goren near whispered, also carefully taking control of his emotions, "twenty-two caliber, powder burns, uh," Goren leaned forward inches from the victim's wounds, "I'd say mid to close range, uh, if he was shot in the back, It seems likely she reacted, turned around to fire back," Goren paused again to inspect the female detective's hands, also small and strong like Eames, "looks like she got off a shot before she was hit, here," Goren pinpointed two entry wounds, "and here."

Eames swallowed, "Margaret P. Hennigan, from the one–seven, badge number 6529, junior grade, thirty-two years old, lives in Brooklyn."

Goren stepped back and moved his way over to the male victim.

"James R. Underwood, also with the one-seven, badge number 6217, senior grade, thirty-nine years old, also from Brooklyn."

Without warning, the curtain behind them moved sharply back, causing his heart to skip a beat. Eames blanched noticeably under the fluorescence just before Elizabeth Rodgers entered the narrow space.

Rodgers' unmistakable groan sliced through his thoughts, "This is why I hate the job!" Rodgers shook her head in disgust, her orange tousled mess of a haircut bobbing from side to side.

"I can second that," Eames agreed stepping aside to let Rodgers through, her face finally regaining some semblance of color.

Because there was little room to maneuver, Eames quickly approached him, "I'm going to step out to get the full report from Hannah, okay?"

Goren nodded before turning his attention back to the male victim.

"Damn," Rodgers muttered, as soon as Eames had cleared audio range, "she looks like your partner."

Goren felt a surge of anger shoot through his body. He certainly didn't enjoy Rodgers' crass take on the situation. Even if she spoke with the absence of cruel intention, she should understand, (given her line of work that is), that filtering what came out of her mouth was part of the job.

He ignored her comment completely, and continued to survey the male vics body, his nose catching a hint of alcohol from the area around the vic's lips, "bourbon?" Goren thought aloud.

"The tox screen will confirm no doubt," Rodgers noted, scrawling notes on thick spiral notepad, "I'm sure they were off-duty. So how's your arm holding up?"

"Better," he grunted impersonally.

Since the DNA test incident, Goren had been loathe to let Rodgers in on any details that surrounded his personal life.

"Good," Rodgers murmured, "although in all honesty, you look better, I mean overall of course, leaner, meaner. Kinda like the old you."

Goren shot a suspicious look Rodgers way, but quickly went back into work mode, "he was married. Uh," Goren inspected the detective's left ring finger, "a tan line here, he wore a ring."

"But not today," Rodgers humphed, "I'm sure you see that quite a bit on the job."

Goren nodded, while edging over to the plastic containers, sifting carefully through the contents: wallet, watch, bloodied dress shirt, shield - but no ring. He jotted down a handful of notes in his leather binder and bid adieu to Rodgers.

It was time to find Eames, and most importantly - time to get the hell out of the makeshift morgue.

* * *

><p>They drove back to Eames apartment in silence. From the few glances he stole, (her lovely profile against the backdrop of city lights), it was safe to say that his partner was miles away.<p>

Parallel parking in front of her modest one bedroom apartment, Eames finally broke her silence, "you've got your appointment tomorrow?"

"Oh, uhhhh, yeah," Goren nodded, "Gyson, b-but I can cancel, this case you know, it takes precedence."

Eames shook her head, her eyes uncharacteristically stony, "it's only an hour, I can field it."

"Look," Goren sighed, "I know you can field it. I just, well . . . this is not, i-it's never been about your abilities."

Eames nodded, her face still hard to read.

They mobilized quickly as she shut off the car, it was too damn hot for anything else.

"If we get one of those rolling power blackouts, like the ones we had a few years back - we'll all be screwed." Eames scowled before adding, "do um, do you feel like grabbing a smoothie?"

And looking into her questioning face, studying her soft brown eyes, the emotional weight of the day came crashing down around him. He simply couldn't respond, couldn't look into his partner's face without being drawn back into the horror of seeing detective Hennigan's lifeless body on the hospital stretcher.

Eames' nostrils flared, as if suddenly she'd been sucked into the dark void with him.

"When you were in the room," Eames started quietly, "and I was in the corridor briefing with Hannah," she paused, the fingers of her right hand notably shaking, "she came, you know? His wife. A-and she had that look," Eames bit down on her lip, vying for some control, "it never gets easier, you know? Underwood was only a couple of years older than Joe."

_Fuck that, he thought derisively, didn't you see it? **She** looked like you. And it was just so fucked up._

He could see the emotion building in her eyes, her nervous energy simultaneous with the pressure building up in his chest.

"Come here," he might have mumbled, it was hard to recall.

He remembered enclosing her, cast and all, her strong arms tense against his biceps. He remembered getting carried away, doing things he shouldn't do - well things he shouldn't do without birth control on hand.

He remembered that it was hard to stop, even harder to shut off his mind so he could just relax and come - and that it seemed to go on forever, like an overdue therapy session. It was frantic sex, not entirely pleasurable at times for both of them, but so damned necessary. Coming was the imperative: bringing on all the endorphins and letting the analgesic effect take over.

They rolled over, a jumbled heap of sweat, flesh and clothes. He could barely catch his breath, or string together a single thought for that matter.

But after a few minutes passed he was able to put the pieces together, to reflect and finally panic.

"I didn't," Goren admitted, "I-I, you know, we didn't."

Eames lay still on her back, her ribcage shuddering alternatively between inhaling and exhaling, "didn't what?"

"I didn't have," Goren started again, "there uh, there was no," he sighed trying to catch his breath, "I-I didn't pull out."

Eames eyes blinked repeatedly, as if she were calmly pondering the concept, "yeah, we weren't being very careful. That goes for me too."

"But the odds are," Goren laid out with much hesitation, "l-like between one and four percent, uh, not very large t-that we could, uh, you know?"

Eames nodded, "they are pretty low. And given a few other factors, yeah, I wouldn't worry about it."

"I'm sorry," Goren shook his head, "I-I don't know what came over me."

"That woman," Eames turned towards him, her hand brushing against his left cheek, "I heard someone say that she looked like me. I guess I can see it . . . but I don't know."

Goren shuddered against her touch, "this case, Alex. It isn't going to be easy."

She nodded slowly, "It never is."

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	21. Chapter 21

_Chapter Twenty-One_

* * *

><p>Office of Dr. Paula Gyson's office, 931 Broadway, Sunday, July 17<p>

* * *

><p>"How've you been detective?" Gyson's even toned voice cut through the cool air of her aesthetically calming office environment. The shades were strategically pulled down and angled such that most of the sunlight was reflected back outside. Two silver fans hummed in unison, the currents of air swirled against the heavy leaves of Gyson's indoor greenery.<p>

"You seem somewhat perplexed," Gyson offered, shifting her weight back into her designer chair seat back.

Goren attempted to smile, but his right leg immediately betrayed him, vibrating up and down in earnest.

"It's uh," Goren started, "it's a case I'm working on."

"Oh yeah?" Gyson's eyebrows raised simultaneously, "Do you want to tell me about it?"

"Umm," Goren leaned forward, running his left hand from the back of his neck up towards the crown, "you know, maybe I shouldn't, I-I mean, you know, uh, maybe I should use this hour to, uh, get away from work for a while."

"Sure. Absolutely," Gyson nodded warmly, "with all past formalities out of the way, I hope you feel comfortable enough to use this session in any way that seems fit."

"Thank you," Goren cleared his throat, fighting the urge to rock back and forth in his seat - understanding that such behavior would probably make him out as someone who should be placed on the autistic spectrum. And because he'd only just received his 'not insane' stamp of approval over this very summer, as far as he was concerned, there was little reason to throw himself back under the NYPD's microscope.

"You do seem somewhat distracted," Gyson's eyes narrowed, "more so than usual. Are you sure everything is okay? How's your arm?"

"Uh, okay, better," Goren wiggled the fingers on his non-dominant hand, "actually things are uh, I suppose things have been better than they've been in a while."

"That's a good thing," Gyson's smile was genuine, "I'm happy to hear it."

"So detective," Gyson continued, "what do you think is making the difference?"

"Well, uh," Goren ran his left had over day old stubble, "I've changed some of my, uh," and half-way through the sentence he felt compelled to laugh, as if talking about personal challenges seemed somewhat ridiculous, "you know, some of my personal habits, and uh, people close to me have been supportive."

Gyson nodded her head in encouragement, asking him of course to elaborate.

"Uh, well, you see, there was the drinking more water and the diet," he paused, "for healing purposes, the broken arm was the impetus to cut off the smokes for good."

"Physical health is integral," Gyson's eyes twinkled, "and it's wonderful to hear that you are continuing to make the effort to take care of yourself. Or in other words, as we've discussed in previous sessions, you have starting to put your needs first."

Goren nodded, folding his hands in his lap.

After a long silence Gyson shifted in her chair, pulling her legs from under her, "so, how are things going with her?" she started hesitantly, "I don't mean to press, as these sessions are about you, but, I know that she is an integral part of your life."

"T-things seem to be working out okay," he spoke slowly in deep thought, "but it's not easy, you know?"

"Can you explain?"

"I uh, I don't know," Goren sighed, tension starting to build up with each breath, "i-it's complicated, I mean, when I think about, you know, that I understand_ them _better than I understand almost anything, you know, even before I understand her. A-and that's fucked up, right?"

"You said _them_," Gyson shrugged her shoulders, "I'm sorry but I don't follow, who are you referring to?"

"The people I'm paid to track down, uh," Goren shook his head, unable to hide the emotion that was creeping into his voice, "I _get_ them, I get the suspects, I know where they are coming from, I know what gets to them, what they want, what they need."

Gyson nodded, brushing a stray hair from her forehead, "We've talked about your emotional intelligence, about your coping skills, about your ability to read people."

"I-it's not just reading them," Goren tried to explain, "I_ get_ them, you know, because I'm only one degree different from standing in their shoes, right? A-and sometimes I just get tired, you know, so tired of it. I j-just want to be normal one day, wake up and be normal. Be able to understand _her_, uh, be able to _get_ her and be able to give her what she needs. I-it doesn't come naturally and - you know, I wanted it to. Because, uh, it comes easy for me to understand all of those fucking idiots in my interrogation rooms," Goren paused, sighing as he slapped his left palm against the thigh, "I mean, what's the point of having a high EQ when you can't, uh . . ."

"Okay, okay, I see," Gyson spoke evenly, slower still, as if to promote a sense of calm – a calm he clearly didn't possess at this moment, "but I don't think you are thinking about this in the right way."

"Look," Goren laughed, "you can't fix everything here."

And the moment after he spoke, Goren didn't fail to see the corners of Gyson's mouth twitch upwards for a split-second.

"Maybe you don't need as much fixing as you think." Gyson offered, "So, let's see - when you start thinking in this manner, you need to ask yourself what bar you holding yourself up to. And consider this, think about all the things you've seen on the job over the years, you can't really believe that relationships come easily - like second nature."

"So it's back to that perfectionism concept?" Goren shook his head.

And from that point on in the conversation, for some strange reason, he danced around Gyson for the duration of the session. Most of him was preoccupied with wondered why he was taking the time for this kind of mental sparring while his partner was out their fielding for him, off fending for herself, just as it had been in the past.

Stepping out of Gyson's office, Goren absently checked his phone for missed calls. Balling up a dress shirt under his arm and waiting for her call, he realized that he should have worn a lighter or thinner undershirt. New York seemed to be on fire, and it wasn't even yet mid-day. Already, the humidity was beyond bearable, so much so that Goren nearly ran to the nearest underground.

A group of kids were milling aimlessly on his end of the platform. And as was true of most New Yorkers that didn't have immediate access to AC or a makeshift pool, the group of rag-tag adolescents were doing anything to escape the heat. A boom box blasting a simple beat, a repetitive melody that was hard not to pick up on – it was like he'd stepped back into a time machine and it was suddenly 1980 all over again.

Minutes after his train left the station, all the jazz in the library of his brain couldn't block out the simplistic beat of the strange fusion of kiddie-pop/hip-hop light. And with every passing station that blurred by, he was reminded that he had been turning into a dinosaur for years. One line from the song continued to reverberate in his skull:

_. . . and all I ask is that you don't get mad at me . . . _

He'd only been away from her, from the job, from this fucking case for over an hour. And all he was left with was this fucking line from a song in his head. To top it off, if Eames called now, the noise of the train would drown out any ringer, the motion of the car would mask any vibration, not to mention that the ability to catch any signal bordered on impossible. Her call would certainly kick her out to VM.

Coming out from the darkness and into the reflection of light bouncing off the steaming payment and a million additional reflective surfaces, the wave of heat hit him faster than the powerful stench of hot dog stands and urine. He ran up the flight of steps, and two-stepped all the way to 1PP. She'd not yet called, she was just trying to give him space, right?

_. . . and all I ask is that you don't get mad at me . . . _

Exiting the elevator onto the eleventh floor, he spotted her sitting at her desk, surrounded by a group of concerned NYPD detectives. And Eames wasn't the only one at Major Case taking the heat. The situation of having two detectives gunned down in daylight, necessitated that Hannah occupy his office on a Sunday afternoon. Hannah was similarly surrounded, a few overzealous prosecutors and an assistant DA were beating their chests, happily camped out in one of the most prestigious PD offices.

When Eames finally spied him, still flocked by multiple personnel, she silently gestured to him that he should use one of the multi-purpose room.

And sitting in that room (waiting for him) was a neatly compiled copy of the case file. It was time to quietly immerse himself in the puzzle, and his partner had had the foresight to give him the materials he needed to get started. And truly, it was why she was the superior senior partner - she'd always known how to play to his strengths. Goren sat down and slowly digested all the materials at hand. Pulling a mobile whiteboard forward, he began mapping out a game plan.

So thoroughly engrossed in the game at hand, Goren startled when Eames opened the door to the multi-purpose room, "Done with the one-seven for now," she reported, "and, um, scheduled a meeting with Ana Underwood, you ready?"

Goren nodded, "James' wife, right?"

Eames confirmed, a sad smile forming on her lips.

* * *

><p>Underwood Residence, 47 39th Street, Queens, Saturday, July 17<p>

* * *

><p>The skyline of brownstone condos perspective abruptly ended at the intersection of the first perpendicular cross street. Goren wiped a bead of sweat from his head, and took in a sharp breath as he turned towards the forlorn unit. The heat reflected intensely against the blacktop, the air surrounding them formed into pockets of hot, hotter and inhumanely hot.<p>

Eames steadied herself after shutting the SVU door behind her, pausing briefly to look skyward, "Are you ready for this?"

And of course, he knew the question wasn't really meant for him, "yes," he answered without hesitation.

And as they settled into the living room of Ana and the late James Underwood's rented Queens two-1/2 bedroom, he watched his partner put on her game face - even though it was easy for him to see that internally she was swiftly coming undone. It was in the way she squared her shoulders, her facial muscles rigidly controlled: her cheeks hollow and tight.

In a split second a thousand questions blew up in his mind. Starting along this thread: _Should she go through this? And why am I, or rather, why are we still doing this? _

Ana Underwood met them at the door, quietly ushered them through a narrow hallway and into a streamlined sitting area. Ana's face was telling, cheeks drawn with deep, red bags underlining her soft, sad hazel eyes.

Ana was a wreck, but honestly what else could be expected? The transition from shock to anger was a fine line – and one that clearly had not yet been transgressed.

Indeed, he'd been there, and the horror lay in knowing that the worst was yet to come.

"I'm so sorry Ms. Underwood," Eames spoke in a voice that seemed to belong to another, "I want you to know that you have our deepest condolences."

Goren swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded mechanically.

"He, he was," Ana started, using the back of her right index finger to brush away a tear, "he was on his way to see his nephew's soccer game."

"Where, uh, where was your nephew's game?" Goren pulled out his mechanical pencil and cracked open his leather binder.

"At the field near his school, PS 128, in the city, uh," Ana fumbled for words, "It was, something James was very much looking forward to."

"What time was the game?" Eames queried gently.

"Ten o' clock," Ana sniffled, "ten on the nose, a-and, well now we know, um, he never made it."

"In a statement you uh," Goren shifted uncomfortably, staring at a line of questions he'd prepared earlier in the day, (ones that were largely based on statements that were collected by his partner during her conversations with detectives from the one-seven), "at the hospital, y-you made a statement to detective Rojas suggesting that you may have received a call from your sister-in-law?"

Ana Underwood looked a touch confused, "Daniel? Danny Rojas? Oh yes, I remember. My sister-in-law, Emily, she called because James wasn't answering his cell. It must have been around the half, because my nephew kept asking why James hadn't shown up."

Goren nodded, "That would have been around twenty-five past the hour or so?"

"I can check my phone log," Ana stood up to find her handbag, after rummaging through her purse she found her cell and began sifting through her call log.

"Here," Ana handed the phone to Eames.

"Ten-twenty-eight," Eames confirmed, "that's about two hours to track down, give or take."

"Is there anybody," Eames spoke softly, "anybody at all, or any case that James was working on, um, anyone that might have had it out for your husband?"

"Oh god," Ana shook her head, "I-I just don't know. He worked on so many cases over the years. But nothing, and believe me, I've been racking my head, but nothing really stands out."

Goren bit down hesitantly on his bottom lip, "Uh, I-I'm sorry that I have to ask this next question, it's routine, uh, but how would you describe your relationship with your husband?"

"Good, good," Ana answered quickly, "I mean, it's not like we were newlyweds, and we had the occasional fight, but everything was okay, right? Everything was okay."

"Did he seem unusually preoccupied with work, or um, maybe with something outside of work?" Eames prodded.

Ana shook her head, "no, no. Same old long shifts, same schedule for years," Ana paused in thought, "Jesus, I-I just can't believe that he's gone."

Goren noticed his partner wince, noted that her left hand dug into the sofa.

And there was little more to gain from the interview, save the building up of deep seeded sorrow and the reopening of old wounds.

* * *

><p>Back in the SUV, Goren popped a stick of cinnamon gum in his mouth before rolling up the windows as the AC kicked in, "one can do a lot in two hours."<p>

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Eames turned toward him, eyes downward.

"Uh, well, clearly there was something going down that only James and his partner knew about."

"He wouldn't have missed his nephew's soccer game for just anything."

"Uh, and his partner wouldn't ask him to meet up on his day off, uh," Goren paused, "unless she was in trouble?"

"What kind of trouble?" Eames wondered aloud.

"And why was there alcohol on his breath?" Goren added.

And after a day of collecting and sorting pieces of the puzzle, by the time they found themselves at her place, it was very late.

All day, save the appointment with Gyson, Goren was locked away in his head, very much in the game at hand.

Eames had checked out too, she was lost - very much lost in the case . . . or an idea, or memory for that matter.

Multiple times during the day, he observed his partner staring off into space. And in general, he found her to be unusually quiet, less snarky, more apt to fall into long uninterrupted stretches of time devoted to the ever-growing case file.

Pulling off his dress shirt and tie, Goren showered immediately before falling into bed. He was feeling unusually fatigued, not to mention particularly grossed out about his cast. He felt particularly trapped by the fading black contraption that had presented him with so many unique issues during the healing process. He could only imagine what his atrophied arm was looking like these days, in terms of scent - well his sensitive nose was certainly picking up that there was a not-so-fresh smell emanating from that particular region. And during the day, on multiple occasions, he had to stop himself from shoving his mechanical pencil up the sides to relieve the chronic low grade itching. He'd only just managed to track down the last plastic bag in Eames' house just so he could take a shower in the first place. But in the end, as much as he wished to vent, the cast was the least of his worries.

Now comfortable in bed, Goren's eyes closed heavily as he pressed the left side of his face into his pillow, which like everything else in the room, smelled of her.

All the while, he was remotely aware that _she_ was still up and about. After all, this was the case she wouldn't be able to set aside.

It was the case that was going to take her down, drag her about . . . chew her up and spit her out.

And this time, he was going to be there for it all, at work and outside of work, no detail spared.

And as his brain starting to fade into the world of dreams, he decided that that's the way it should have been all along.

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	22. Chapter 22

_Chapter Twenty-Two_

* * *

><p>Apartment of Alex Eames, Sunday, July 18<p>

* * *

><p>Goren was groggy, still half-asleep as he stumbled out of bed. He fumbled all the way to the bathroom, clearly disoriented as he transitioned out of an intense dream - a dream that had seemed so real it took him several seconds to register his surroundings.<p>

It was only as he flipped on the light switch that it became clear that he was in _her _apartment. He spent the next few seconds staring back at his tired mug, calmly reassuring himself that his confusion was an honest mistake. One would simply need to compile the immediate facts on hand: it was still the middle of the night and he had been the only one occupying her queen-sized mattress.

Only minutes before his body induced him to rise and use the bathroom, Goren had been quite comfortable in the middle of her bed. And in his dream induced state of mind he'd been riding the L-train. All sights, sounds and smells associated with the familiar commute were quite palpable. The low drone and vibrations brought on by the train as it pulled eastbound above the tracks nearly lulled his over-drive brain into believing he was on just another one of his evening commutes.

But even as the familiar pattern of stations whizzed by, he couldn't ignore the slow sinking feeling in his gut. A feeling that he'd left something important behind at work - or perhaps he'd forgotten that he needed to exchange trains in order to meet up with Eames somewhere?

But like many of his dreams as of late, the details were unclear.

What was most unsettling was that everything had seemed so fucking real. And this was the first time in recent memory where after waking that he felt truly on edge - worried that there might be some real hidden meaning beyond the visual facade.

Sure there was no real good reason to explore the concept further, but then again, there was something just off enough in his dream - something about the flickering of the interior cabin lights on the L-train, the uncertainty and discomfort he felt knowing that he'd forgotten something along the way.

Again, the details were unclear, but as he washed his hands in her sink with her aromatic citrus liquid soap, he made a mental note to mention the dream to Gyson.

Edging himself back out of her bathroom, Goren barely remembering that he needed to flip the toilet lid back down before steadying himself down her hallway. He paused before turning back into her bedroom when he noticed the low glow of a floor lamp emanating from her living area.

_Where the fuck are you Eames?_

After one of the shortest investigations of his career, he found his partner passed out on her couch - her work-issued laptop resting sideways on the side the ottoman. Eames was surrounded by the thick case-file, her cellphone, keys, a half-empty cup of coffee.

And all the questions he'd harbored deep inside his gut came flooding back. Yes. Sure he could see the parallels. Fuck, he'd put himself in this position for the majority of his career. And yes, he knew that Eames was equally dedicated when it came down to finding justice at any cost. But it was in seeing her like this, at four-fucking-am in the morning, well, it turned him into a goddamned philosopher.

Just what the hell was life about? Why had he and Eames built their lives around this job?

Well, he knew why _he'd _thrown himself into the job. But what about Eames? How did she feel?

And wasn't it time to find out?

He felt a sharp pang emanating from his chest. And immediately, he wanted to lift her up and rescue her.

_You idiot! Rescue her from what? Does she even want to be rescued? So where the fuck would you take her? And uh, just how can you save her when you can't even save yourself? _

_Would she even ask?_

Based on the fact that she hadn't asked him for anything in over ten years, well, he was convinced that Eames asking him for anything seemed unlikely at best.

"Umm," Goren leaned forward, gently extracting her from her cocoon, namely removing her from the mess of pens, loose papers and sticky notes.

"Unggh," Eames startled when her cell hit the floor.

"It's okay," Goren whispered, "c'mon, let's get you to bed," using his legs he hoisted her clumsily, wrapping his casted arm around her.

"I can walk," Eames started.

"I know you can," Goren shifted mid-hoist, partially supporting her legs over his bulky cast.

"Wait. I mean, what about your arm?"

"Now, now," Goren shushed gently, catching his breath as he edged in her bedroom sideways like a crippled Dungeness.

"Oh shit," Eames mumbled as he set her carefully in the middle of her bed, "sorry, in the other room, I left my phone you see and the alarm is set."

Goren nodded in the darkness, "I'll get it."

When he returned, she was pulling her hair behind her into a loose bun, the low glow of the hallway light illuminating her profile. She'd slipped out of her pants and work clothes, and was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, "Gotta be in early."

"Oh?"

"Hannah personally left a VM," Eames sighed, "press conference first thing, and well, I'm the lead detective on the case. I'll be in charge of the task force so to speak."

He didn't need to postulate at this hour, but the situation spelled out 'politics as usual.' For one, Eames very much resembled one of the fallen detectives, and the larger consideration was grounded in the fact that his partner was very much the NYPD poster child, particularly when one looked at the, circumstances of the case at hand. Given her background, she could easily pull at the heartstrings of the public while at the same time, she could keep the tight-knit NYPD family in check. Yup, they were going to use his partner as a symbolic shield.

"Look, uh, I didn't mean to wake you," Goren frowned in the low light as he checked the alarm setting on her phone, "you are barely going to get enough sleep as it is. I-I just thought you'd be more comfortable in bed."

"Thank you," she smiled, stifling a yawn, "if only I could get a little sleep-in time next to you."

Goren's heart two-stepped, his smile fading quickly as he brushed a stray hair from her forehead, "Uh, you know, o-one of these days we're going to have the time. I know it, a-and uh, we'll push this job to the wayside, you know, uh get beyond Major Case."

"Sounds nice," Eames murmured sleepily, her words almost drowned out by the low humming of the AC wall unit.

"Love you," he spoke softly, before planting a kiss on her temple.

"Mmmmm, me too," Eames nestled in closer, her words between soft warm breaths that melted into his chest, as if she was speaking directly into his heart.

He pulled her in, wrapping his left hand tightly around her waste, he felt comforted by the rhythmic rising and falling of her ribcage, felt her shoulders and muscles relax in his grip before she entered her own world of dreams beside him.

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	23. Chapter 23

_Chapter Twenty-three_

* * *

><p>One Police Plaza, Monday, July 18<p>

* * *

><p>It was unbelievably early.<p>

Alex Eames had received orders to come in to work at the crack of dawn in order to play her new role for the NYPD Chief of Detectives. And truth be told, it wasn't out of the ordinary, Robert Goren had been placed behind the podium on multiple occasions too. However, the largest difference lay in the fact that Goren's tasks had always been to educate an audience of NYPD colleagues and not the general public.

* * *

><p>Robert Goren took a swig of coffee. He set the cup down reflexively, completely caught off guard that the dark liquid was now cold. Indeed, cold office brew ranked high on his list of unpleasantries.<p>

Goren rubbed at his eyes before scanning the relatively empty eleventh floor. The caffeine should have taken effect by now, but for some reason, he still felt unusually sluggish. He'd be fifty years old in a month's time, and damned if he wasn't starting to feel his age. Ten years ago he might have bounded into the office at six in the morning, rearing to go, cold coffee or none. He ran his finger across day-old stubble and wondered why the job wasn't giving him the same sense of purpose, calm and order that it had in the past. Had he changed or had the job changed? Or both?

At present, Eames' empty chair stared back at him. His subconscious stirred and he was reminded of the fact that for most of the night, he slept alone.

And of course he knew it wasn't personal, his partner was simply compelled to do right by the fallen detectives. Forget compelled, Eames was downright driven. And yes, over the years he'd found himself in the same position: obsessive and thoroughly engrossed when the tables were turned and the case became uniquely personal from his own perspective. So based on reciprocity, Goren dutifully held down the fort with cold coffee in hand while Eames was charged with prepping herself for the press conference downstairs.

On the ride over to 1PP, Eames had casually expressed that it wasn't necessary for him to come to the conference, and in fact, she encouraged him to stay on the eleventh floor. He took her words at face value, and tried his best to take it in stride - pushing back at the paranoia that was building inside. This was where the lines started to blur. Eames was being professional, right? She was helping him draw the distinctions between personal and professional. And from the professional perspective Eames had been right to convey that he stay behind, (even though she had not spelled it out), in regards to the double homicide, they had plenty of ground to cover.

But when push came to shove: as Goren shuffled through papers, read initial reports, compared notes from multiple witnesses and came up with a general attack strategy - he just couldn't focus. Fuck if he was going to be able to work while she was downstairs playing hardball for the NYPD. He revisited his earlier quandary by choosing to play a devil's advocate. _What if something comes up during the press conference? What if this situation calls for me to redraw the lines for myself? I should cover my bases._

Goren glanced at the clock on the wall, if everything went on schedule, Eames should be at the podium in about fifteen minutes. Therefore, there was just enough time to hit the vending machine, lay a bag of skittles on her desk and visit the men's room without missing her in action. Politics or not, this was going to be a big deal for her.

When he approached the main floor, it was easy to follow the trail of reporters to their destination.

Goren picked a spot towards the back of a growing audience, just to the left of a structural beam. At his height of nearly six-foot-five inches, it wasn't going to be easy to stay out of sight. And he was loathe to think that his presence might be able to throw her off her game. It's not like she banned him from showing up, it's that in the last month, he'd just started to understand how much of an effect he had on her.

While he waited amongst the throng of reporters, officers and public, he surveyed the general layout. Goren was glad that the powers-to-be had decided to hold the press conference inside the building, (especially when one considered that it had never cooled down last night. That, and another day of the wretched heat wave was just about to commence).

After several more minutes passed the crowd gathered in tight and their conversations buzzed wildly. The subtle change in atmosphere prompted Goren to look up from behind his stoop, just in time to see his partner approach the podium. Even from his far-off vantage, it was easy to make out that the PR department had marched her through quite the routine, which most likely including a personal stylist. Eames hair looked professionally coiffed and her face had been detailed intensively too, (and under said circumstances this was probably a good thing; when they left her apartment this morning she looked very much like someone who had received the bare minimum of sleep - complete with a pale drawn face and two distinct bags under each eye).

The press quieted as she adjusted the microphone, Joe Hannah flanked her as did Manhattan's very own Chief of Detectives, Phil Pulaski.

Seeing her in this setting was surreal on many levels, he scratched at his head with his left hand, his right leg aching to bounce up in down as his nerves got the best of him.

"Good morning," Eames voice reverberated through the main floor level simultaneous with the sound of a thousand cameras chattering, pencils and pens scrolling, fingers bumbling against iPads, "Thank you very much for coming, I have with me on the podium, the captain of Major Case, Mr. Joseph Hannah and to his left is Chief of Detectives, Mr. Phil Pulaski. The New York Police Department has suffered a great loss . . ."

Goren leaned back slightly, tilting his head to the side, as if he could hide or blend in with the structural beam. He was doing all he could to not draw attention to himself, or pull attention away from Eames. He didn't want to upset her, didn't want to be the one to step into her territory or steal her thunder. As Eames continued to address the crowd, her voice projected her image as that of a strong, commanding, respectful and compassionate individual. The same thought kept entering his head: this might have been his partner as the captain of Major Case. Alex Eames, as she was meant to be: smart, loyal, politically savvy, competent and empathetic. She was finally the powerhouse he'd always known she'd be capable of becoming.

And for the second time today, he felt utterly philosophical.

". . . the coming days will be difficult for us, the loss of two of our very own is a tragedy that effects us all - but we can rely on the strength of our police family and the community to help cope with the grief. As the New York Police Department deals with this tragedy, I ask that you keep the Underwood and Hennigan families, friends and colleagues in your prayers. And while I can't comment on the investigation at this time, I'll answer any questions."

Goren watched as a frenzy of hands vied for her attention. He leaned forward, shifting his weight in an effort to quickly escape before the barrage of questions hit. And just as he edged past several co-workers, the first question shot out through the air.

"Yes, thank you Detective Eames. So, being that you are the lead investigator on this case, and considering your background, that being the widow of NYPD detective Joe Dutton, will this bias allow you to carry out justice in a fair and impartial manner, or is this just another one of the New York Police Department's oversights?"

Goren stopped dead in his tracks, pressure building up in his chest as he debated how he should deal with the situation.

"Joe Dutton's death was over thirteen years ago - " Eames started before Hannah stepped forward hastily, a menacing scowl painted across his face.

"I can address that question," Hannah simmered, his very large presence and booming voice immediately silenced the crowd, "as we were expecting a degree of cynicism."

"Thank you, captain," Eames interjected in an equally fierce tone, "but this is a fair comment, and I'd like to address it personally. As I was saying, Joe's death was over thirteen years ago. During my tenure with Major Case, I've been the lead detective in several cases which involved homicides of our very own. Following arrests, indictments and subsequent convictions, both the offices of the district attorney and general public had nothing but positive feedback about MCS's handling of the cases, of which again, I was responsible for overseeing."

And with that, Goren decided it was in his best interest to leave. If he heard another slight or character assassination, he'd likely lose his temper. He knew his limitations, and while it was difficult to say whether or not Gyson's anger management was having a positive effect on him, he was determined not to fuck her career up all over again. So before he could cause undue injury to her or her career, (not to mention their partnership or relationship outside of work), he slipped out quietly.

Several hours after the press conference, back on the eleventh floor, Hannah called Goren into his office.

"I sent your partner on another round," Hannah glanced down at his wristwatch, "she's currently briefing the NYPD task force."

"What's my role in this case?" Goren inquired quietly.

"The same as it was yesterday," Hannah sat behind his desk, "and until we put the responsible parties away, it's unlikely that your role is going to change anytime soon. It's procedural."

"It's political." Goren corrected.

"Look, you were right about her," Hannah rested his elbows against the edge of his desktop, "she's exactly what this department needed."

Goren drew an imaginary line on the floor with flat edge of his right shoe, a frown hidden from Hannah's view, "I wanted to talk to you about her involvement in this case."

Hannah raised both eyebrows, "yes?"

"So, you uh, you did your homework about her," Goren bit down on his bottom lip, "you know, you read her file, knew about her background."

"This _is_ an interesting turn of events Bobby," Hannah leaned forward so that his broad shoulders were square with his elbows, "I hired you. I knew about your talents in this arena. But if I recall, _you_ were the one to slip her file under my nose."

Goren felt his hackles raise slightly, Hannah was going to draw this out for what it was worth, "a-and given my track record, you were going to give in to all of my demands?" Goren shook his head, "as if I ever had any leverage."

Hannah bristled back, "well, then Bobby, what do you really think? You think the Chief of D's regularly reinstates officers that resign after being offered promotion? That was quite the move. I think we call that particular move a career bomb. She's lucky she's not sitting behind a desk in Inwood. After they kicked her loose, I heard she tried to apply for an opening as a temp captain for the two-seven. A step down, but as you know, you make a move like that and you have to expect to be blacklisted."

"T-they'd have been lucky to have her, a-and the only reason she was turned down was because the captain of the two-seven was able to manage her health issues. Eames and I worked with Van Buren, and my best guess is that she's in remission."

"You're loyalty goes way beyond chivalrous, old friend," Hannah frowned, never losing eye contact, "I'd suggest you take it down a notch. You think of yourself as enlightened, but now you're methods are starting to stink of old school patriarchy. Give your partner more credit. I was trying to give her a compliment, and you too, for sending her back to Major Case."

"Joe," Goren didn't bother to hide his growing irritation, "you are making me regret I took your invitation in the first place. And uh, _you_ need to take a step back. Y-you are pushing her in front of the wolves. Especially w-when you know it's personal. You could be fielding this, y-you are just using her."

Hannah's ears peaked red at the tips, enough for Goren to know that he'd struck a chord.

"Well it's clear why you haven't advanced in your career. Your partner knows that to lead, you've got to take on difficult issues. And in life, to be a responsible adult one must be able to separate work from their personal lives."

"That's idealistic Joe, the realities are that sometimes the line between work and play are blurred," Goren spoke barely above a whisper, the disgust was clearly present, "you are letting them use her as their shield."

"As far as I'm concerned," Hannah arched his right eyebrow, "we're done with this conversation."

"And what about our friendship outside of work?" Goren needled, "you uh, you don't see how the line might get blurred?"

The tip of Hannah's ears were now a deep crimson, his eyes bore holes in Goren, never leaving their target as his right index finger pointed to the door, "you've got two unsolved homicides to solve detective."

And with that, Goren stormed out of Hannah's office unceremoniously, and was still seething by the time he reached his desk. Setting down heavily in his chair, he fought the urge to stand up, turn around and tell Joe to fuck off. Anger management was key. Should he count to fucking ten? Or should he shove the pile of books and papers onto the floor?

Before he could decide, he heard someone calling out his name.

"Goren?"

He turned his head ninety degrees.

"Goren!" Jackson grumbled, "you gonna answer her phone? It's been ringing on and off for the last ten minutes."

Goren refused to respond to Jackson before he angrily picked up the receiver on her landline, "Major Case," he snarled.

"Detective Eames?" The male voice hesitated, "Um, I'm sorry, I'm trying to reach a detective Eames?"

"And this is?"

"I'm Philip Milletti, I just watched the press conference on my laptop. I'm detective Hennigan's friend, I mean, um, I was her boyfriend."

Goren rubbed the back of his neck and pulled the receiver in tighter once he realized to whom he was speaking, "I'm, uh, I'm sorry about your loss."

"Thanks," Milletti murmured, "Look, can you leave a message with detective Eames? I can leave my contact info and um, could you please let her know that I want to help - er uh, do what I can to help find out who could have done this to her? And well, um, to her partner too of course."

"What are you doing now?" Goren flipped open his leather binder.

"I could come in."

"Where are you?"

"I'm at work," Milletti offered, "are you on the case too?"

"Detective Goren, yes. Uh, I'm detective Eames partner," Goren replied, "Can you meet up for lunch? Uh, in the next half hour?"

"Hmmm," Milletti hesitated, "okay, okay, sure. How about Lenny's?"

"Lenny's?" Goren repeated while scribbling in his notepad.

"Yeah, uh, it's on John street between Cliff and Pearl."

"Cliff and Pearl," Goren confirmed before grabbing his keys, back-up, leather binder and mechanical pencils.

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	24. Chapter 24

_Chapter Twenty-four_

* * *

><p>Lenny's Deli, 108 John Street, Monday, July 18<p>

* * *

><p>"When did you last see Margaret?"<p>

"Thursday night," Milletti began, "I guess I didn't see her, but," Milletti paused, "it's the last time we spoke."

"You were fighting?" Goren's eyebrow arched, as his left hand busily scrawled notes in his black leather pad.

"It's Maggie," Milletti shook his head slowly, laughing weakly, "she went by Maggie, and um yes, we were fighting."

"You said, uh," Goren scratched the side of his neck with the fingers on his casted hand, "you said it was the last time you spoke?"

"I called her," Milletti explained, "I didn't want to call it off, I mean, you get it, right?"

"No." Goren shook his head, "How so?"

"Come on, you've been assigned this case. That means you've seen her." Milletti looked incredulous. "You've seen Maggie. You can't tell me that you don't see the similarities? I mean, I shouldn't have to spell it out, Maggie was beautiful."

Goren nearly chocked on his own saliva, "Y-you're referring to the fact that Hennigan and my partner, detective Eames, look alike?"

"Are you crazy?" Mliletti shook his head, "you don't think so?"

"Yeah, well," Goren muttered, "you wouldn't be the first to ask, even though I've just been cleared." Goren waited for the comment to settle in before admitting, "But yes, I'll give you that, I mean, uh, I-I see the similarities."

"Damn," Milletti set down his cup of ice coffee, "I mean, yeah, Maggie was a touch younger, but I figured given a few years, she'd be a dead ringer, um, excuse the um - "

"Okay, okay," Goren cleared his throat, "despite the similarity, you want me to know that your intention was to try to work it out. How did Maggie take it?"

"Maybe I'm an optimist, but I'd say she was willing to give it a second chance," Milletti sighed, "I guess you can never tell over the phone, but as I said, I wanted it to work out. She was so much more than," Milletti hesitated, "I mean, she was more than good looks, she was sweet, hard-working, not a bad bone in her body."

Goren nodded while he documented the conversation, the fingers on his casted hand beckoned for Milletti to continue.

Now that everything was proceeding smoothly, i.e., Milletti was starting to feel comfortable during the questioning; Goren felt that it was the perfect time to drop the bomb.

"Uh, you mentioned that you tried to stay out of your girlfriend's work, uh, you know, what she was doing on the job," Goren cleared his throat again, turning the page as he ran out of note-taking space, "but certainly, you must have wanted to know more about her partner, uh, the man she spent most of her time around."

Goren saw it all: noticed and documented Milletti's hesitation, the quivering of Milletti's brow, an involuntary blink, all happening in the microseconds before Milletti could respond.

"Look," Milletti tried to laugh, "I watch cop shows on TV, I understand the whole partner thing."

"You do, huh?" Goren raised his eyebrow, a grin forming at the corners of his mouth, "because, uh, then you must know about the special bond between partners. Studies indicate that the bond can be stronger than just about any documented human relationship, uh for instance, uh, the trust required borders on same type of bond between that of a mother and her child, of family, you know blood ties. Partnerships? Well hell, regardless of sexual orientation, statistically, they can and do make significant others jealous."

With a somewhat forced laugh, Milletti attempted to brush off Goren's comment, "Me? You think _I__'__m_ jealous of the late nights she spent with her partner at their precinct? I mean, yeah, I can see how that would be utterly romantic. Bad coffee, nasty pre-processed foods from a vending machine? I mean, half the time she complained they blew heat in the summer, and finally got the freaking' AC to work come November."

"Underwood was handsome," Goren interjected, "and they'd been partners for some time, been on stakeouts, good times and bad - "

"Underwood was married," Milletti frowned, "to a beautiful girl."

"So was Kennedy," Goren offered under his breath, "but I think you should know the stats in a city like ours, with so many beautiful women to look at, uh, you know, like your partner."

"And you speak from experience?" Milletti deflected.

Goren smiled, raised both eyebrows, and let the question roll off his shoulders, "I'm not the one in question."

"Oh," Milletti mocked surprise, "I see, this is your way of letting me know that I am the one in question. So should I be worried, I mean, should I contact a lawyer?"

"Do you need to?"

"I think this Q and A session is over," Milletti growled, "I came here, contacted you, or rather contacted your partner. Like a good concerned citizen! Am I offended? You bet. Or maybe, this comes down to running into the wrong partner."

Goren scratched at the back of his head, "Well, whatever you choose, just make certain you don't leave town, capisce?"

* * *

><p>Back at the office, Eames looked small and somewhat insignificant when framed against her heavily littered desktop. Her hair was still pinned up nicely, albeit the makeup that had been carefully applied before the morning press conference was loosing its luster.<p>

When she first caught him out of her peripheral, she attempted a smile - which wasn't easy to manage under her mask of fatigue, "Hi."

"Hey," he replied softly, trying just as hard to disguise the look of concern that was spreading across his face.

"The preliminary tox report," Eames sighed, "um, it's not what we expected."

Goren's left hand immediately reached for the faxed document, looming into the airspace above her desk area, his right eyebrow arched in question.

"No alcohol in his bloodstream," Goren mumbled slowly as he silently scanned the report, "but there was, uh," he paused as his brain spun off in multiple directions. Goren had personally noted and smelled alcohol on Underwood's breath, so why the major disconnect? This case reeked of foul play.

"This is pretty messed up," Eames shook her head in disgust.

"It was personal," Goren whispered, "but I can't believe, you know - in a back alley in the middle of the day - no one saw the perp in the act of staging the scene? Did you send their personal items back to CSI?"

Eames nodded, "courier already came by to pick it up."

"I think we need to," Goren stopped mid-sentence as he changed his train of thought, "I'm going to go canvas that neighborhood. Um, maybe you could stay here, bunk up, get some rest, you know?"

Eames started to protest, but Goren held up his left hand, "I'll call you the minute I find anything worth noting."

And to his surprise, her eyes flashed anger, before narrowing a fraction, "_I__'__m_ _fine_, and I'm the senior partner here," her voice was dangerously low but controlled, "if _you_ _want_ to take it, than fine. But I should call it. I can also decide for myself when I need to bunk up."

Her eyes pierced his for a full second before he looked down, his left hand folding back to his side. Nodding his head repeatedly, Goren cleared his throat, "okay, okay," he spoke above a whisper, "if it's alright, I'd like to take it, uh, and I'll call you, okay?"

Moments later, he mobilized without her. Goren's throat was still tight and his heart heavy from her reproach. Before long, he quickly located a uniform officer that could drop him at the site of the Hennigan/Underwood homicide. Focusing hard and heavy, and at a ferocious pace, Goren spent the rest of the day scouring both buildings that bordered the infamous alley. He combed up and down the scene - a crime scene that was still very much controlled by the NYPD: one bordered with yellow tape and police barriers, multiple warning signs and a lock for good measure.

He knocked on every door, used his working knowledge of Spanish, Japanese and some Mandarin to interview every individual who would give him the time of day. He was determined to discover something - fucking anything that would lend them a break.

The impetus had always been aimed at uncovering the truth. But now, the candle was burning at both ends. There was the truth and justice reserved for Underwood and Hennigan, and then there was that other something. The something that was more personal. Indeed, he was pulling for his partner as much as he was for getting justice for the victims of this horrible crime.

And while he'd made little progress over the past few hours, he updated her regularly, (checked in on her because it gave him piece of mind). It wasn't difficult to realize that Eames was getting sucked into the nightmare of it all. He was losing her, and it was scaring the shit out of him.

"Uh, sorry to keep it brief, but my batteries running out. So, uh, how long are you staying?"

"I'm not going anywhere. Um, the results from Underwood and Hennigan's clothing are back. CSI was able to isolate evidence of alcohol from and around the blood stains. The blood stains were there first." Eames reported back in an almost mechanical manner.

"Okay," he paused, "so, it _was_ staged."

"The alcohol overlays the blood, yes. Most likely post-mortem."

"It was poured perhaps, poured or doused?" Goren wondered aloud. "Uh, Eames? Were the alcohol stains only on Underwood?"

"It appears that way," she paused, "why?"

And in that question, he heard her voice pop back to life.

"I've uh, I've got a hunch about something," Goren started, unsure about how much he should elaborate on his dying cellphone, "look, uh, I can get a lift back and we can, uh, we should map this out. I need to think about this."

"I'll wait for you," Eames stifled a yawn, "but I'm gonna need a break soon. Coffee will hold me for a bit, I'm in 1109. I'll see - "

And with that, his phone died on the spot. _Fuck_.

Dammit - now he was going to have to work harder to track down a uniform. All the while his mind was distracted by his Eames' state of mind, because while it might go unnoticed to the average eleventh floor employee, it was becoming quite clear to him that his partner was slowly unraveling.

Truly, it was the first time he was worried, and not because it wasn't like they'd never been here before, (as in during the time period where Joe's case had been reopened over four years ago), but it was the first time he felt uniquely responsible for his partner's happiness. And truth be told, he hadn't felt responsible like this since his mother's passing. He knew it was irrational, but fuck if life was anything but.

He decided to bring Eames an espresso on his way back to the station - from her favorite stoop, lots of sugar, an almond biscotti for dipping too, drizzled with milk chocolate. The link between chocolate and the positive impact on both physical and psychological states of women continued to intrigue him. And even though there was a lack of direct data to connect the dots, Goren was willing to try anything to boost her spirits.

After all, cinnamon gum had dramatically aided him in kicking his "one-a-day" habit.

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	25. Chapter 25

_Chapter Twenty-five_

* * *

><p>One Police Plaza, Monday, July 25<p>

* * *

><p>A week had come and gone. Seven days, no breaks – and like a persistent fog, the fatigue was starting to settle in low and thick.<p>

From his view from one of the many eleventh floor conference rooms, Goren watched as Eames exited Hannah's office; her small frame gracefully weaving in and out of the geometric maze of desks.

And in the way that she carried herself, not to mention the seriousness of her expression, Goren gathered that her meeting with Hannah had merely served to increase the complexities of their high profile case. As if that were fucking possible.

But before he could dwell on the situation further, Goren's mind was drawn back to staring at his partner's raw beauty. Eames: the sublime lithe creature he'd slowly attached himself to over the past decade. Over this strange transitional summer, a time period where he'd started thinking about her as more than friend, he found himself caught up in a myriad of fantasies. Watching the last rays of natural light highlight the natural curves of her frame, he was suddenly blinded by the irrational desire to have his way with her right here on the eleventh floor.

The pressure and personal nature of the case had taken its toll. They'd narrowed the field to several possible candidates: two of which had been derived from cases Hennigan and Underwood had previously been assigned to, and because of his personal suspicions, Goren had insisted that they try to bring Milletti in for further questioning.

As Eames closed the conference door behind her, he waited in silence as she settled down across from him. Consciously drowning his most recent sexual feelings for her, he continued to wait quietly for her to strike up dialogue.

"Apparently it's easier to drag parolee and cons into interrogation rooms when the totality of your evidence can be likened to a slice of swiss cheese," Eames groaned.

Goren nodded sympathetically, waiting for her to expound.

"You've already had your shot at Milletti. And as I understand it, he won't come in?"

"It's time to apply pressure," Goren paused in thought, before unconsciously gauging his watch: 7:58 p.m. - just another late night at the office.

"An alley full of evidence- ," Eames huffed, her face obscured by a curtain of hair as she flipped through Milletti's LUDs.

"This doesn't piece together right," she looked up from her list, her right index finger resting halfway down the list, a visual bookmark of sorts, "and don't get me wrong – I'm sure Milletti is as quirky as described, but without a real motive, and a lack of damning evidence, it's like we're still at square one. We're going to need to reevaluate our suspect list."

"Milletti's got a uh, I mean, uh, you know," Goren offered, "it's a bullshit alibi. We hardly need a motive given their intimate relationship. If Hannah is willing to give us more time, the gun will turn up."

Eames shook her head in frustration, "I can't believe that the slugs they pulled out were basically useless."

"Not useless," Goren spoke softly, "just not in the system."

She sighed slowly, using both hands to gather her hair to base of her neck. Her jaw was tight; skin pale and taunt.

"Ale-," he started before correcting himself, "Eames, c'mon, let's call it a night."

He felt his heart drumming in his chest, the worry building up from his core. Would she listen? Would she let him take care of her? Would she care if he picked up Milletti and lined him up in the interrogation room all on his own accord?

"You go," Eames muttered, "I've got to get through this list, and then there are a stack of financials, ex-girlfriends, co-workers, family, friends –"

"I've already got a leg up on Milletti's personal relationships," Goren shifted in his chair towards her, "and you know as well as I - that all of the work will be here waiting for us tomorrow, uh, and I want to tell you something."

"No, no," Eames protested, "throughout all our years together I've never asked you to bunk up or call it a day."

But this only egged him on further. He edged all the way over towards her, the arm of his chair now flush against hers, "If we go right now, I bet we can catch the tail end of the sunset."

"What?"

The look of incredulity on her face was priceless, and it did nothing but drive him to continue this irrational course of action. "C'mon Eames, if we leave now we can catch sight of it from the window in the hallway near the western facing stairwell."

His beloved partner looked beyond puzzled.

"A sunset, Eames, you know, when the last rays of light from the sun are visible, uh, when the skyline is illuminated by a diverse range of colors that scatter randomly against thousands upon thousands of airborne particles."

"Are you serious?"

Instead of answering her question, he leaned in inches from her ear and whispered, "Did you know that sunset colors are said to be more brilliant than sunrise colors?"

"Bobby!"

"It's because the evening air is infused with more particles than the morning atmosphere."

He thought, or perhaps he imagined that her shoulders relaxed, but just to seal the deal, he added, "the play of light against the evening atmosphere is unbelievably beautiful," he continued despite himself, nervously biting down on his bottom lip, just inches away from the smooth soft skin of her cheek.

"You can actually see it in between the buildings?"

"In and around the buildings, and i-in reflection," he whispered, his face close enough to hers that he was certain she could feel his breath.

"Then let's go."

Goren smiled, a small shock of hope radiating through his chest. And maybe this was a sign, or a leap of faith; a the turning point that she was going to let him in, let him help her, let him take care of her.

* * *

><p>Apartment of Alex Eames, Monday, July 25<p>

* * *

><p>After he clambered off her soft luscious body, her body still heaving and covered with tiny beads of sweat, he laid a kiss in the soft depression between her right hip bone and the edge of her ribcage. Flopping over onto his left side, he felt a shiver ripple through his body.<p>

Goren pulled Eames in tighter and waited for her to fall asleep before he let his mind wander to more pressing matters.

How was he going to nail Milletti without falling into the traps that he'd fallen into over the past twelve years? Eames had been kept busy enough by the brass for him to wander off and apply the pressure to Milletti.

And in the tender moment where Eames nestled her head into his chest, Goren made the executive decision that in regards to Milletti, it would be acceptable to cross the line if necessary.

* * *

><p>Apartment of Philip Milletti, Tuesday, July 26<p>

* * *

><p>"Your boss told me you were taking some time off," Goren spoke through the opening in Milletti's door, a space no more than five inches wide - as a security door chain was still quite visibly attached.<p>

"You of all people should understand why I'm taking a some personal time," Milletti glowered.

Goren discreetly wedged the toe of his left foot through the small opening, "I thought you might be interested in some new information we've uncovered, uh, in regards to your girlfriend's murder."

Milletti expression softened, "you've got new evidence?"

Goren nodded and made the motion as if to open his black leather pad, "uh, you gonna let me in?"

"Wait," Milletti frowned, "where's your partner? How come she didn't accompany you?"

"She's busy, Philip," Goren spoke evenly, "uh, but either way, I'm a little surprised with how I'm being received."

Milletti shook his head in irritation while he started to undo the chain, "is she just for show?"

"I'm sorry?" Goren replied, more concerned with pushing his way into Milletti's small accommodations.

"You know, your partner," Milletti clarified, stepping back before leading Goren into the larger living area, "is she just the mouthpiece? Because you seem to be doing all the grunt work."

Goren's eyes narrowed as he chewed on the inside of his cheek, "I'm not here to talk about my partner, I'm _here_to talk with you," Goren paused as he pulled out a faxed file he'd received from their internal forensics team, "this report indicates that a team of forensic scientists have finally identified the slug, tied it directly to a twenty-two caliber gun."

"Really?" Milletti looked genuinely puzzled, "um, can I take a look at that report?"

"I doubt you could make heads or tails of it," Goren baited Milletti, waving the file inches away from Milletti's face before placing it back in his binder.

Goren pushed himself uncomfortably close, using every once of height to his advantage, "You see, the most important question in my mind is why anyone would be interested in pouring over an investigator's report? I would think you'd be happy to hear that detective Eames and I were that much closer in locating the weapon, which would further indicate that Major Case would be one step closer to catching your girlfriend's killer."

Milletti nearly backed into his own sofa, desperately trying to take back some of his personal space, "Just what is it you want detective?"

"Let's talk man to man," Goren edged forward another inch, an action that had Milletti taking refuge on his own couch, "For one, you might not be the key specimen under my microscope if you would simply take the effort to pay me a visit, you know, come down to the station. A painless voluntary question and answer session would suffice."

"Could you guarantee that she'd be there?"

"She's the lead detective on this case, of course she'll be there."

"Okay," Milletti sighed, "I'll come in. Not today mind you, I promised my ailing mother I'd give her a hand with a few errands, but um, first thing tomorrow morning."

"She lives close by?"

"I don't believe that's any of your business detective."

Goren pulled back, "so we'll be seeing you tomorrow morning, by ten?"

"Yes, detective." Milletti bristled.

And with that, Goren felt confident he placed the right amount of pressure on Milletti. He'd also bought them some time to get more information on the gun, and if he played his cards right, he'd hopefully just sent Milletti off to make some classic mistake.

* * *

><p>One Police Plaza, Tuesday, July 26<p>

* * *

><p>"You did what?"<p>

"I requested immediate surveillance on Milletti."

"Can you fill me in?"

"You've been busy."

"I know," Eames sighed, "I hate my new role."

He winced, feeling relatively uncomfortable about her blatant statement, uncomfortable enough to not know how to respond.

"How did you get him to bite?"

"It wasn't easy," Goren flipped through his black leather binder and pulled out a faxed report, "I just waved this in front of his nose."

"Nice," Eames smiled, squinting at the tiny print, "is that from the Thompson case?"

Goren smiled and nodded back at her, "he'll be in tomorrow, uh, that is, if he doesn't try anything rash tonight."

And for a brief second, he thought he saw a glimmer of hope flash through her eyes.

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	26. Chapter 26

_Chapter Twenty-six_

* * *

><p>One Police Plaza, Wednesday, July 27<p>

* * *

><p>Robert O. Goren didn't like being wrong.<p>

In reality, "didn't like" was clearly understated for he goddamned hated being wrong. So much so, that for days on end one might find him in a funk, brooding and obsessing.

"Are you sure?"

He didn't need to ask a second time, but he did for good measure. The added query afforded him the time to turn away from Eames as he waited for the color to leave his cheeks.

Goren knew she was watching him, knew that she knew he was flustered. Damn her, he thought. She knows me too well.

"Okay, well," Goren took in a deep breath and tapped his blue mechanical pencil across the sole of his black leather shoes, "shifts over and it's time to move on. He should be heading our way soon. Yeah, thanks for the report."

"I'm looking forward to meeting this character," Eames spoke as she carefully picked apart a blueberry danish.

And he knew she was merely trying to lighten his mood, her acerbic wit almost always had the effect of lifting his spirits. But now that his original plan of catching Milletti in the some guilty act had been foiled, Goren was having a hard time not obsessing about why his tactic to prod Milletti into action had failed.

With plan A on the fritz, plan B would need to go into effect. And plan B, (a.k.a the backup plan), entailed that Milletti would go head to head with Goren while his Eames was present. And in all honestly, Goren wasn't certain how that might play out. It was unsettling to think that he might not have control of the situation. And while it's not like they hadn't interviewed a multitude of haywire nut-jobs over the years, it's just that this peculiar suspect already had this weird thing for his partner. Combining his fear of Milletti's irrational behavior with his desire to be in full control of his domain at all times, Goren felt an unsettling feeling growing in his gut.

They'd certainly discussed how they might handle Milletti. In fact, Goren had already given Eames his general impression of how the interrogation might play out.

_She __can __handle __herself. _He chanted the mantra in his head. And it's not that he knew his partner couldn't handle herself, but rather, in her delicate state of mind, god help him if he couldn't control himself.

And given this moment of lucidity, Goren began to understand why most NYPD departments frowned upon intimate relationships among assigned partners.

"Is the danish off? You usually polish them off quickly."

Eames shook her head, "Not the danish, it's me. I might be coming down with something."

"Take a few," Goren offered, "Milletti isn't due until ten."

And some twenty minutes later, while Eames was still off using the break room, one of Goren's colleagues, Michael Rizzo, informed him of Milletti's arrival.

"There's a guy, Phil something or other, who's milling around the elevators asking about you and Eames. You want me to find him a room?"

Goren nodded. "Tell him, detective Eames and I will join him in about fifteen minutes."

"Sounds good," Rizzo confirmed, pausing to eyeball Goren's right arm.

"So how long till you get that thing off?"

"Two weeks I hope," Goren looked down at his well-worn cast.

"You must be going crazy in that thing. My son broke his arm. His right arm too. It atrophied quite a bit. But, you know, after a while he got everything he lost back."

"Thanks Rizzo," Goren stood up before gathering his leather binder and the Hennigan/Underwood case file.

Once all was gathered, Goren headed towards the break room. Rizzo's comments were still fresh in his head. Goren couldn't help but play out the worst case scenarios: What if his arm didn't heal right? What if he had to have the cast on until his fucking birthday? What if upon recertification to getting the clearance he needed to get his police-issue back, his accuracy dropped off the charts?

He stopped mid-thought when he reached the break room.

"Eames?"

Finding the break room empty, he continued on towards the women's bathroom, hesitating before he decided whether or not it would be a good idea to knock on the door. While Goren understood that the number of women on this floor was still dreadfully low and the chances of Eames being the only occupant was relatively high, he wasn't going to take his chances.

"Eames?"

"Gimme a sec," Eames called out from behind the closed door.

Goren immediately backed away from the door and waited patiently as to give his partner the privacy she deserved. Women and bathrooms, it was a rule he learned early - give them all the deference they deserve.

A minute later, Eames came out of the restroom; her hair smoothed back and gathered into a pony-tail and her visage a little too pale for his liking.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm definitely coming down with something."

"Milletti is in the house," Goren licked his lips nervously, "and I, uh, I-I think it might be best for you to sit in the observation deck. N-not because of how you are feeling. Of course if you are feeling bad, uh, you know, - "

"It's okay Goren," Eames interjected quietly, "I think you're right about this one. You should lead the first round. And as always, we'll play it by ear."

"It might be helpful, uh, well uh, you know, we've already talked about how to attack. And uh, you'll see almost immediately how you have this effect on him."

* * *

><p>And within a several minutes Goren found himself on lead - in one of the many drab rectangular rooms; a setting where the only source of light came from the fluorescent lights that reflected eagerly off of the metal table and chairs. To this day, Goren still hated being in confined spaces. And that certainly included being stuck in a small room with Milletti.<p>

Milletti, like Goren, was sporting a grey tailored suit. Goren had gone with a slate blue tie, while Milletti was wearing bright cherry red.

And with little fanfare, the interview started out quite as Goren expected.

"Nice," Milletti groaned, drummed his fingers against the hard metallic surface, "not that I'm not totally thrilled to be hanging out with you again."

"You were uh, expecting something different?" Goren gestured broadly, both his shoulders raising in unison.

Goren sat down across from Milletti grinning broadly, laying the case file down on the table with a playful slap, "This is just routine set of questions. Everything is, as you know, voluntary of course."

Milletti kept drumming his finger against the table, "Of course. But I hope that the overwhelming message sent will satisfy you and your crew. And I want to drill into that stubborn skull of yours that by making the effort to come in on my own volition, on my own time, my free time off I might add - well, my actions should speak volumes."

"Namely?"

"Come on! That I'm innocent. I want to catch Maggie's killer. I want to help. I've stated this from the beginning."

"Okay," Goren shuffled the file between his fingertips, "You just want to help, so uh, let's get started. Let's revisit your alibi, and then we can talk about the forensics report I had on hand yesterday."

"And then I can go?"

"Of course," Goren sat back casually, "as you are free to go at any time during this Q&A session."

Milletti tried to appear calm, but whatever it was that he was trying to exude, came out more like a disingenuous smile.

"Something wrong?" Goren queried, leaning his head to the left.

"I don't get it, where is she?"

"Where is who?"

"Come on," Milletti grumbled, "your partner? You know, the NYPD's cover star?"

"She's here," Goren started slowly, fighting the urge to transmit any reaction to Eames through the tinted window.

"She's here?"

"Of course. She works here on the eleventh floor of Major Case."

"Than why isn't she _here_?"

"Let's not get off track," Goren didn't bother masking his own growing irritation as he kept Milletti in check.

All the while, Milletti reflected his own agitated state even as Goren continued the next round of questioning.

"So, uh, when are you going back to work?"

"My boss told me to take as much time as needed."

Goren feigned surprise, "Well that's pretty generous in this time of economic uncertainty. You know, a time when there is always someone just waiting in line to take your spot."

"I'm not worried."

"Good," Goren paused before opening up the case file, deliberately playing with the edge of a photo from the crime scene, "let's go back and talk about the morning of Saturday, July sixteenth."

Without warning Goren slid several photos from the crime scene under Milletti's face. A photo that highlighted several pools of blood, all of which contrasted sharply against the aged blacktop surface, lay at the top of the pile.

Milletti sat back in his chair rubbing the right hand side of his face.

"Jesus, really? Yeah, okay, I met up with my friend Matt Ryans to take a jog in the park."

"Central Park?"

"Yeah."

"Where were you supposed to meet?"

"Near the zoo, you know, on the side nearest the zoo entrance around sixty-fourth."

"What time?"

"You know, I already told a detective. Um, I can't remember his name, around nine-thirtyish."

"Yeah, and again uh, just for the record. How long did you jog?"

"Wait a minute."

"What?"

"Is she on the other side?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Is your partner on the other side? I mean, come on, you've glanced up at the window more than once."

"There's probably more than one person standing on the other side of that window. Why are you off again on my partner?" Goren shook his head in clear disdain, "If I were you Philip, I'd stay focused on the task at hand, like for instance, when you finished your run. I've got to be honest with you. Either you were in training for the New York Marathon, or you had plenty of time to blow before you stalked your ex-girlfriend into that alley on –"

"Shut up! Shut up! I'm done. Done with you. I want her. I want to talk with her, not you. Where the hell is she?"

"Sit down, Milletti," Goren growled, standing up for good measure.

"Just why is it you'd think I'd let her in a room with an emotionally unstable lunatic?"

Suddenly the door to the interrogation room swung open. Eames' expression was anything but calm. In fact, she looked extraordinarily livid. And if Goren hadn't seen her academy award performances a thousand times over, he might have cringed.

"Goren," Eames barked, "I've been observing this conversation from the onset, and I still don't see what grounds we have to waste Mr. Milletti's valuable time. I mean, why are we asking him repetitive questions when you have the report under your nose?"

Goren used his partner's planned disruptive soliloquy to train his full attention on Milletti, watching closely for subtle changes in expression. What Goren was able to discern certainly threw up a few red flags. He watched as Milletti stared unblinkingly at his partner. Milletti appeared totally unfazed as Eames continued on her pseudo tirade.

Red flags? Hmmm. It was easy to conclude that this guy was dangerous.

Goren was also well aware that Hannah was behind the observation window too. It was time to check in with his captain, to see if Hannah was also picking up on the same cues.

After playing the proper deference to his partner, Goren quietly excused himself from the room.

As Goren entered the neighboring observation room, he found Hannah equally entranced with studying the rather bizarre behavior of Philip Milletti. Arms crossed and eyes narrowed, Hannah scratched his right side burn before engaging Goren.

"This guy is a piece of work."

Goren nodded, but waited patiently before entering the conversation. Hannah clearly had more to say, and Goren didn't feel like he was ready to show his hand.

"Problem is Bobby, without leverage, I don't see how you're going to flip him."

"He's giving us all the warning signs," Goren stated, his partially casted right palm open while gesturing towards Millletti, "clearly he's unstable."

"Well, you have a way of getting under his skin," Hannah noted, "which is something you've always been very good at. But without the forensics, and the fact that this guy has been consistent about his confirmed alibi, you aren't going to be able to get a DA near this one."

"Jesus Joe, look at him. Look at how he's looking at her. He's obsessed with my partner; and not only because she is a detective and his type, but because she looks like an older version of Hennigan. Now how could that possibly be a normal reaction in this given situation?"

"I agree with you. It's alarming," Hannah paused in thought, leaning his large frame against the grey textured wall.

"The problem is, you gave him something to bite at - but he didn't bite."

Goren sighed, he couldn't argue with Hannah in regards to that harrowing fact.

"Still nothing on the gun trail?"

Goren shook his head, still racking his brain to find something, anything that they could throw on Milletti to hold him.

In the end, after Milletti enjoyed a long round with Eames, much to Goren's displeasure, they were forced to kick Milletti loose.

* * *

><p>Even as they left the office together, Goren was still playing Milletti's timeline in his head, dissecting every step, looking for any holes, inconsistencies or weaknesses.<p>

"You seem about a million miles away," Eames noted as she checked her rear view mirror and turning towards him as she backed out of her One Police Plaza parking garage space.

Goren sighed and unconsciously tried to settle back in her passenger seat. He lamely made the motions to push the chair back further, even though he remembered that the seat was already in its full back position. His knees grazed the front compartment, and again he was reminded of why he always felt like a circus clown every time he caught a ride in her white Honda Civic.

"Earth to Goren."

He flashed a smile, swallowed his claustrophobia, and pretended he was in the process of readjusting the air vents.

"You know it's going to take a bit before the air will hit, I can open the windows," his partner offered.

"It's okay," he swallowed thickly again; the sweat was as much from his concentration and frayed nerves as it was from the heat.

"Milletti sure shot up to number one on my suspect list. However," Eames paused, "I understand why Hannah wants us to press the other suspects."

Goren frowned, as there were still so many unknown factors in their understanding of what happened on that warm July day.

"The problem is, we still don't know what Hennigan and Underwood were doing in that alley in the first place."

"I've had access to their LUDs from the beginning, they certainly weren't lured through texts, calls or messages."

"The killing was personal," Goren mumbled, speaking his thoughts aloud.

"Look," Eames offered, "I know Milletti is completely off his rockers, but our others suspects are good candidates for needing this to be personal too."

Goren scratched at the top of his head, "true, but . . ."

"I know," Eames sighed, "it was like 'lover personal.' And we've talked about it before, but do you, um, do you think Underwood and Hennigan were more than partners?"

"They were detectives, so if they were, I'm sure they were discreet," Goren paused, "but if we were able to uncover it, then we've got motive."

Eames sighed again, "and we break Mrs. Underwood's heart a second time."

And with that overarching thought, they sat in silence for most of the drive back to her apartment.

As Eames parallel parked in front of her apartment, Goren found the courage to ask her what had been resting in the back of his head for the past day.

"Eames?"

"Yeah?"

"When you said yesterday," Goren cleared his throat, "uh, you know, that you hated your new role. I mean, is it the new responsibility or uh, does it have to do with you know, uh –"

"Well outside of this nasty bug I'm fighting, I'm not feeling as mentally stressed as I was yesterday. But, yes, overall I'm definitely feeling the squeeze and, well," Eames turned towards him, "maybe it's a good thing that I didn't take the captain's position."

He returned her gaze quizzically.

"I guess I don't like playing politics as much as I thought."

"You're very good at it," Goren offered, "so maybe it's just this case."

"Maybe," Eames considered. "This case is pretty damned personal and on so many different levels."

* * *

><p>Apartment of Alex Eames, Wednesday, July 27<p>

* * *

><p>They ordered in take-out and fell asleep together on her couch, which was easy to do when watching a documentary about the origins on civilizations.<p>

He remembered hearing the AC click on before he passed out next to her. Then somewhere in the haze of sleep, he heard another strange noise. But by that point, Goren was somewhere straddling the line of dreams and reality - a peculiar place in which he was beyond the point where he could have reacted if he wanted to.

By mid-morning tomorrow, the noise that he thought he heard would all make sense.

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	27. Chapter 27

_Chapter Twenty-seven_

* * *

><p>En route to One Police Plaza, Thursday, July 28<p>

* * *

><p>Goren fingered around the bright blue and yellow metro card in his pocket, fishing for some loose change.<p>

"Thank you man!"

Goren nodded slightly to the frail homeless man who was strumming wildly on a beat-up out-of-tune guitar just outside of the underground platform. Goren scratched the back of his neck and sighed. He was always quick to spot any indication of service, and in this case he eyeballed the edge of a military tattoo on the indigent man's right arm. It was easy to process several external clues, namely that based on age, the man had probably served in Vietnam. Goren was all too familiar with the fact that a third of all homeless adults in the country were veterans. More than half of those homeless vets were minorities.

He felt his cellphone buzz in his left pocket.

"Goren." He answered.

"You called?"

"Yes. Uh, I called to tell you that my partner's not coming in today. She's sick."

"Okay," Hannah sighed. "Just remember that if you need some help, ask for it. I don't need to remind you about the politics surrounding this case. This crime was enacted against our very own, so it goes without saying that finding Hennigan and Underwood's killer is a priority for Major Case."

Goren nodded into his phone. "Yes captain."

"It's my understanding that Eames was going to start hitting the two alternative suspects hard and heavy. Am I still correct to assume that this is the same route you're taking?"

"Yes. I'm going to track down Cantone today. Cantone is on parole. He uh, he was recently released from Rikers Island a few months back. Hennigan and Underwood were the lead detectives on his case, and uh, it's one of a few that we turned up that looked like Cantone ended up having some personal issues with Underwood."

Goren was still in the middle of explaining his method of attack when he heard his phone indicate that another call was incoming.

"Uh, captain? I've got Eames on the other line. I'll call you back."

"Alex?"

"Hey. You called?"

Eames' voice was dulled slightly. Groggy perhaps?

"Yeah. I left a message for you to call me when you woke up. I uh, I wanted to see how you were feeling."

"Okay. Thanks," she paused, "I'm still really tired. I had a rough night."

"I know. Your fever didn't seem to break until just after two. I put together some chicken soup for you. It's uh, it's in the fridge. You should, uh, you should, you know, eat some when you feel up to it."

"Thanks. I'll try."

"Look, I'm a few blocks from the station, and uh, was just in the middle of briefing Hannah. I took public transport so the cars around if you need it. But uh, call anytime if there's something you need, something I could pick up for you on the way back."

"Okay. Thanks."

"Kay, bye."

"Good luck."

He smiled before ending the call.

He'd never wanted to admit how much he liked the idea of being with her. It all seemed to stem from the comfort of having someone you really care about waiting to see you and wanting to hang out with you at the end of the day.

Having her in this new intimate light was going a long way for him in the happiness department. Not to long ago, he'd already written off the idea of being able to have a normal, happy relationship with anyone. But Eames had survived over ten years by his side and for some strange reason, she wanted more.

Now if they could figure out how to balance love and work, all his problems were solved.

* * *

><p>It was nearly lunchtime, or so Goren's stomach was telling him as it started to grumble. In actuality, it was only eleven in the morning, but he'd left Eames apartment early and had subsisted thus far on several cups of coffee. In a relatively short period of time he'd successfully trekked down and interviewed Cantone and several of Cantone's associates.<p>

Cantone had all the characteristics of every underprivileged drug addict he'd dealt with in his past. God knows Goren knew the smell, look and feel of an addictive personality. His brother had been cut from the same cloth as Cantone. What Goren was able to carry away from the interview was that Cantone, much like his brother, did not seem to carry the traits of a violent, malicious character. Which contrasted sharply against the profile of the acutal individual who carried out the hits on Underwood and Hennigan. The true killer had the cold-blooded intent, not to mention a perverted sense of pleasure in denigrating Underwood's lifeless body at the crime scene.

Outside of a deli off of Eighth Street, Goren parked his police issue in order to get a bite to eat. He'd frequented the joint with Eames early on in their partnership. This place had sufficient indoor seating, great salads, and it was air conditioned - which was perfect for cooling off in the humidity.

Without his partner, Goren used his lunch hour as an opportunity to eat and work, powering on his cell and checking in with some of Hennigan and Underwood's co-workers.

It was time to find out if personnel at the one-seven noticed anything about Hennigan and Underwood that might indicate that they held a relationship outside of work.

"I know these questions are personal, and uh, being a fellow detective, I can understand how you might feel about revealing information about a co-worker, but, uh, were there any signs? Uh, you know, anything that might suggest that there was something going on between detectives Hennigan and Underwood?"

Goren sighed, before taking another swig of water. He'd been hung up on more than he'd like to count. He was beyond empathetic when it came to understanding why detectives of the one-seven were being protective of their own. Part of it was the blue wall, precinct pride and community, the other issue was dragging their co-workers name down the toilet before a suspect had been nabbed. Then there was the issue of Ana Underwood. No one wanted to be responsible for making her life more uncomfortable than it had already become. But fuck, this was all about uncovering the truth. So he still didn't really understand why they wouldn't bother to give him the time of day.

By his seventh call, he was starting to make headway, "Look, Major Case wants to nail this guy. Detective Eames and I only want to uncover the truth. Which of course is the only real way to really understand the killer's motive."

"Okay," the hesitant detective started, "but this is off the record. Right?"

"Yes, of course, for now."

"Well just to be clear, you never heard me say these things. And you know damn well if anyone 'round these parts ask, I'll deny I ever talked to you."

Goren shook his head and wondered what his fellow detective was thinking when all one had to do was get a copy of this their LUDs.

"So, what have you got for me?"

"Well, they were both good looking: a guy and a girl. They'd been partners for some time. So, of course there is always talk no matter what. That just goes without saying."

"Yeah, I know," Goren paused to jot down notes on his leather pad, "how long were they together?"

"Before I started up. So I'd say at least seven years or so."

"And you think something was going on with them?"

"Well, I wouldn't be surprised. Let's put it that way."

"Uh, how do you mean?"

"Well, they were tight. And I know, I know, some partners are that way. But really, they hardly even communicated verbally. They just got each other, and they would just give each other these looks. She used to smile at him, and the way he would look back at her . . . I don't know, but I guess I always felt like there was more to it than just hanging out at work."

"Okay, but do you have anything more concrete?"

"No. I never saw them together doing anything inappropriate if that's what you mean. But on the other hand, they were inseparable. They went to every department party together, and you know, I thought it was kinda strange that Underwood never brought his spouse. They always side by side at those parties, or on the job for that matter. So yes, Underwood just um, kinda followed her around like a puppy. But then again, you know how close partnerships are. It's like a damn marriage."

Goren was lost deep in thought, his mind consumed by the deep parallels that were being strewn out in this somewhat surreal conversation.

"Okay, thanks for your help on this one," Goren chewed on his inner lip, "Please get back to me if anything else comes to your mind, or you know, if you hear anything in passing."

* * *

><p>After finishing his meal and rounding out to the end of of his list of phone calls, Goren left the deli. He was halfway to his police issue vehicle when he heard someone calling for him near an alley between the buildings on his left hand side.<p>

"Hey Goren."

In response, Goren turned towards the ally. He was more than a little surprised to see Philip Milletti waiting for him less than a block from where Goren had parked.

Milletti was grinning broadly, almost manically. Goren swallowed slowly, feeling wary and very much aware that he didn't have his back-up.

"Milletti. Uh, funny thing meeting up with you in an alley."

Milleti's smile lost its edge, "isn't it?"

Goren paused, fingering the cell phone in his pocket. Wondering if now was the time to call Hannah and to send for back up.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Oh don't worry, I have no doubt this will be a short meeting."

Goren pulled out his phone casually. "My gut tells me that it's not a good idea to be standing in an alley with you. Am I going to need to call for backup?"

"You're going to need it, but I doubt you'll need back up. I'm the one who is going to be making a call to your superior officer."

Goren stood straight, unable to hide the quizzical expression that was taking over his face.

"It sure is a strange chain of events that I'm having this conversation with you now about _your _very attractive partner. Life has so many twists and turns. So many parallels too. Wouldn't you agree?"

"I'm sorry. But I don't follow you." Goren continued to exude calm, his head tilting slightly to the left.

"Do you think I'm an idiot?"

"Why would I think that, Philip?"

"I followed you, you know? Last night, I tracked you both all the way to her adorable cottage apartment."

"And this is how you've been spending your time off?"

"Does it matter how I spend my free time? It's obvious how you spend yours!"

Goren quickly replayed the events from last night in the mind. He was sifting and searching rapidly. He recalled hearing someone or something, some small noise outside her window late last night. It made sense now, Milletti had been keeping tabs on them, watching them. It was beyond creepy. So the next obvious question was whether he and Eames had done anything that might suggest they were intimate, a.k.a. a couple. Well beyond the obvious, namely that he'd spent the night at her place, Goren could only remember that she'd been sick. That he'd kept his distance: both for her comfort and for his health.

"My partner is sick. You're an idiot. She's a uh, a widow, no one to look after her, and I wanted to make sure she was okay."

"Yeah right."

"And uh, so that's what you were worried about with Underwood."

"I told you, he was married."

"Come on Philip, you needed to be sure. You needed to check up on him."

"I told Maggie that they were spending too much time together. I saw the way he looked at her. I needed to be sure."

"We all need to be sure. We need to feel secure. Did you uh, did you see something you shouldn't have? Was she unfaithful?"

Milletti bit his upper lip. Goren couldn't help but notice that Milletti's hands were shaking slightly, "she would _never_, never be unfaithful to me."

"But what about Underwood?" Goren prodded carefully.

"He seduced her."

"_What_ did you see Philip?"

"I followed them. I knew they were too close. They spent all that time together. She told me it was because they were partners."

"But you took care of it, you taught him a lesson."

"I did," Milletti smiled crookedly, "I lured him out, but . . . she was in the way. I had no choice but to take her out too."

"Okay," Goren said, "it's okay, but I'm going to need to bring you in now" Goren quickly edged towards him, first guiding Milletti's elbows towards his sides before swiftly maneuvering the suspects clammy hands neatly together. "Phillip Milletti, you are under arrest for the murder of Officers Hennigan and Underwood. You have the right to remain silent, whatever you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney and - "

"I know, anything I say, blah, blah, blah. And if I can't afford an attorney one will be appointed for me."

Goren slipped his cell phone back in his pocket and grabbed a pair of handcuffs. Milletti showed no signs of resistance initially, although he got a little jumpy after Goren tightened the cuffs. "Hold still and it won't hurt."

"At least you didn't have to seduce your partner."

"It's none of your concern. We're not involved," Goren spoke in a very controlled voice as he prompted Milletti to head towards the approaching curb.

Goren called for backup, which promptly showed up in less than ten minutes. He felt as if a weight was lifted off his shoulders as he watched the officers put Milletti in the back of a squad car.

All along he'd been convinced Milletti was the one. And finally, Goren had been gifted an admission. And while he'd had not exactly mirandized Milletti before some of the more damning statements had been released, Goren felt certain that he would be able to work some magic back at One Police Plaza before Milletti's attorney arrived.

His confidence bolstered, Goren mostly felt relief in the fact that they'd cleared a somewhat dangerous individual off the streets. And most importantly Goren would be able to tell his partner that this one was finally off their plate.

Eames had suffered great stress while taking the lead on this case. Whether it was the added responsibility placed upon her - or the intensely personal nature of the case, he'd never know. When all was said and done, Eames' work ethic had pushed her through several hellish weeks before her immune system revolted.

So as soon as the scene was cleared, and he'd been afforded a few moments of privacy, Goren auto-dialed her. "We got him, Eames."

"What?"

"Milletti admitted to the crime."

"He what?"

Goren smiled, "I'm heading back to the office to take him down, but I promise I'll give you all the gory details after he's booked and in the hands of the DA."

"Wow," Eames sounded speechless.

"Are you okay? Can I pick up anything for you on my way home?"

"No, I'm fine. Wow. I'm still in shock."

"I'll call you soon. Okay?"

"Okay. I'm going to turn on the news."

* * *

><p>And some five hours later, after a stand up interrogation, dueling attorneys, and lots and lots of posturing from multiple departments to get in on the action, Goren quietly bowed out of the spotlight.<p>

He was methodically compiling all the paperwork necessary to close up shop on the Hennigan/Underwood case when captain Hannah quietly interrupted him.

"Bobby, do you have a moment?"

Goren felt his mind kick back into analyzing mode. There was something in his captain's tone that gave him the impression that this was going to be more than a congratulatory pat on the back.

"Sure," Goren replied, straightening the files on his desk.

Hannah silently gestured that they converse in private, so Goren set down the last of his paperwork, pushed in his office chair and walked somewhat begrudgingly towards the largest office on the eleventh floor.

"Good job." Hannah smiled squarely, his hand gesturing for Goren to take a seat.

"Thank you." Goren spoke plainly. Internally, Goren had an inkling of where this conversation might be headed. It was a conversation he both dreaded and expected.

"I think we were able to, that is, you were able to give the DA everything he was expecting: a confession, a description of the gun used and where we can recover the weapon. But most importantly, you gave us a solid motive."

Goren leaned forward in his chair, his left foot bouncing up in down while his forehead rested neatly on his thumb and forefingers, "I'm uh, glad, uh relieved." Goren swallowed thickly and cleared his throat while he waited for the more intrusive inquiry.

"I'm sure that Jack McCoy will want to prosecute Milletti to the fullest letter of the law. It's always good politics to make an example of how this city deals with cop killers."

Goren nodded, "I'm sure."

"One of your greatest strengths is in that room. Over all my years working as a detective, well, let's put it this way, you've got a helluva method for working over a suspect. You're just as quick on your feet as you were from when I remember way back when at the academy. Robert Goren: sharp as a tack, quick to adapt, and a master at using every tool in the book."

"Tell me what's on your mind, Joe."

Hannah smiled softly, "even now, you've seen through me. And you know what I need to ask you."

"Ask." Goren beckoned.

"I guess I never could never tell when you were telling the truth during an interrogation. You can get in their heads so well. It's like you become their best friend, I mean, you're so empathetic - it's as if you've lived in their shoes."

"Just ask me what you want to ask."

"Okay, what is it that I want to ask you Bobby?"

"You want to know if I'm having a relationship with my partner outside of work."

Hannah's fingertips were drawn together like a suspension bridge. "Well, are you?"

Goren looked up to meet Hannah's eyes, "As you said, I have a tendency to say anything to get a confession," Goren paused, "but really, what does it matter? What if I was?"

"I don't know," Hannah cleared his throat, "honestly, I've not had to be a supervisor in this particular situation. But there are others who have."

Hannah shifted back in his chair, "And while I don't know how to deal with said situation, I do need to know if there are any issues between partners. That's how I choose to manage Major Case Squad."

Goren remained utterly silent, hesitant to show any emotion or give anything away.

"Look Bobby, because we go back a long ways, I feel I owe you the consideration of asking you answer my query off the record and in the privacy of this office. But I must warn you - I also feel that you need to come clean with me on answering these two specific questions. Were you intimate with Detective Eames before I hired the two of you? And, are you intimate with her now?"

Goren bit tentatively at his upper lip, "No, Joe. I respectively decline to answer at this time, off the record or no. I will answer your question, but you'll understand if I reserve the right to wait."

"Be careful Bobby. Milletti has proved that he'll do anything for attention. He's a loudmouth, he's clearly unstable and he might take you down with him. He's got legal fees to pay, and there are more than a few suspects that make some easy money from rags like the good old _New York Post_. And as your commanding officer, I'm asking you to tell me before you tell anyone else."

"I will."

"Please try to do so before I have to play damage control. If Milletti beats you to it, my hands will be tied. And I know that you know that I don't need to spell out the pressure. I'm the only one standing between you and the brass. A lot of those top dogs still got it out for you."

Goren nodded before leaving Hannah's office.

_Fuck._

Now he was _really_ going to have to think this one out.

He needed time. He probably needed an entire session with Gyson devoted to coming up with the right solution: a solution for that would be suitable for him and his partner.

The most critical piece of the puzzle was that he needed to talk to Eames about it. Once again, this decision could and would affect her just as much as it would affect him.

_Dammit._

Solving the case was just what Eames needed - and yet the solution held a completely different kind of trap that was just waiting to snare him.

Talk about jumping out of the frying pan and into the fucking fire.

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	28. Chapter 28

_Chapter Twenty-eight_

* * *

><p>Office of Dr. Paula Gyson, 931 Broadway, Sunday, July 31<p>

* * *

><p>"You're like a different person."<p>

Goren shifted uncomfortably in his chair, glancing up at the doctor for a fraction of a second, "How do you mean?"

"Well. You are different on many levels I suppose," Gyson paused in thought, "for one, physically you've changed quite a bit. I mean, you've lost lots of weight, but it's not just the weight. You just _look_ healthier. And then there's been another kind of change, internal, I suppose. You've opened up, and it shows in your posture. Maybe it's because you've started to trust me."

"And that's a good thing," he murmured before adding, "I hope."

"Yes that's a good things." Gyson smiled broadly, "You should be very proud of yourself for finding your way. You've had to deal with so much change over the past few years."

Goren scratched at the growing stubble on his chin, "guess that has a lot to do with you."

"Thank you." Gyson smiled again. "But it also sounds like you've had some additional support through this process too."

"Yeah," Goren paused, "She's been great. Uh, very supportive."

"Good!" Gyson clasped her hands together before placing them on her lap. "So what's up? How do you want to use today's session?"

Was it really that easy? Gyson generally never really let him dictate the pace and path of their conversations.

He sat forward and squared his shoulders. "Well, uh, t-there's one case I've been working on and uh, i-it's put a lot of stress on my partner."

"Which in turn put more stress on you."

Goren nodded, "Yes. B-but it presented new problems as well."

Gyson sat back in her chair, her eyes intent on his as she waited for him to proceed.

"It's, well, in the process of nabbing the suspect, uh," Goren paused again, trying to find the right explanation, "well, I've put our relationship into the spotlight. So, uh, in a way, we've been found out, you see?"

"I see," Gyson spoke softly, her voice trailing off as she waited for him to continue.

"I-I mean, uh," Goren stuttered, "I should clarify, I guess we've not been _officially_ found out. It's under wraps. The uh, suspect knows and he's uh - well, let's put it this way. He wouldn't hesitate to do something malicious with the information. He and I, uh, we've got a bit of a thing going on between us."

Goren watched as Gyson shifted in her chair for the second time during the session.

"And," Goren continued, looked distractedly at his shoes before leaning his head to the right, "my boss knows. I didn't tell him, but well - "

"He's a detective too," Gyson gently finished his thought.

Goren nodded, feeling a twinge of emotion rip through his body. He bit down on the inside of his left cheek and sat up quickly in his chair. "Look, I've talked it over with her, you see?"

Gyson's facial muscles tightened slightly as she tried to smile in a calming and reassuring manner. He'd seen that expression on her face multiple times over this past summer - like when he explained to her that he'd covered for his no-good non-biological louse of a father.

"And so what does this mean for the two of you?"

"I uh," he started and then found himself laughing in spite of himself.

Gyson again attempted to smile, a look of genuine curiosity mixed with uncertainty crossing her face.

When he finally quelled his laughter, Goren cleared his throat and continued; "sorry, I was going to say that um," he shrugged his shoulders, "well, I left it up to her."

"And?" Gyson pressed.

"She, uh," Goren paused again, finding it increasingly difficult to explain his current situation, "you know, uh, I think she's actually relieved."

"I don't know," he recanted quickly, fighting the urge to stand up and pace, "maybe I'm not reading her right."

"No," Gyson responded immediately, "no, you've got to listen to your gut. Look, Robert, you can't doubt yourself. You've been with her for over a decade. Of course you know how to read her."

Goren nodded and shifted to the other side of his chair.

"Yes. Uh, and this time it's different I guess."

"Different?"

"Different then how I've behaved in the past."

"Because you are letting her in this time."

"Yes. I'm not shutting her out. She has full input. I'm okay with that. I-I just want her to be happy, you know? Because uh, b-because I fucked it up last time."

Gyson raised her right eyebrow, "you'll have to explain."

Goren nodded, shifting yet again before leaning forward to grab a glass of water with his cast-less hand.

"You're starting to close me out Robert. This memory, this situation, it still bothers you?"

Goren nodded again, before swallowing a mouthful of water. Sighing, he set down the glass before wiping the excess moisture from the corners of his mouth with the palm of his hand.

"It happened, you know, because I use to close her off when uh, when it came down to a situation like this. You know, when anything became emotionally painful, I just dropped off the planet for her emotionally. I never communicated with her, I just let her - fuck, I was an asshole. Partially because I just didn't know how to handle my emotions, I'm private that way. I've never had someone to share my, uh, share my problems with and uh, well, I don't like people who drag their shit into work with them. You know?"

Gyson nodded, her unblinking eyes egging him on for more.

"And uh, well, I didn't want to involve her. I liked her, and uh, I wanted to keep her away from the drama of my family. I was embarrassed. A-and am in fact still embarrassed about my family, my background."

"So you pushed her away. You kept a distance, to protect yourself. We've talked about this before. Your emotional drawbridge."

"Yeah, but I've hurt her more often that I like to admit. And yes, all in order t-to protect myself. A-and i-it killed me, a little at a time, you know? I was a fucking coward."

And he could feel the moisture building at the corner of the eyes, his nasal cavity burning, so he bit down on his inner cheek to keep his emotions in check.

"Detective."

"I'm not going to be a coward anymore. Not for her. She needs me to be there for her this time. She needs me to protect her."

"Detective. It sounds to me like you've always protected her. You've protected her to the best of your abilities given the many emotional stresses you've been through. You can't be perfect all the time. You've earned her trust."

"She had to quit her career for me. She's lied for me. I kept her in the dark to get my fucking shield and badge back. Even getting back into Major Case, after all of this, and now we could lose it all."

"But this time you are not pushing her away. You are not lying to her or keeping her in the dark. You're giving her equal control of the situation. You are in essence showing her that you trust her as much as she's placed her trust in you."

"Is it going to work?" Goren asked gingerly, his eyelids dark, red and somewhat swollen from keeping the tears at bay.

_I-I want to believe. Make me believe._

"I guess that depends on what your superior has to say."

And all along, he knew that Gyson was fucking right about that one.

* * *

><p>Apartment of Alex Eames, Sunday, July 31<p>

* * *

><p>"You've gotta come to bed at some point."<p>

"I can't sleep."

Alex Eames beckoned towards him a second time, her lithe body leaning against the molding of the bedroom door frame.

"Bobby."

"I-I can't Alex. I can't sleep. I need uh, I need to read, I think."

"Bobby. What's the worse thing that can happen?"

"He fires you, and he fires me. Then in this unstable economy we're, uh, we're forced to work menial jobs. Jobs that won't stimulate our brains, jobs we won't be suitable for. And then there is my debt. I just can't, you know? I can't think about it. All of this makes me want to slip into bad habits. Steal a smoke or something, and uh, I don't want to fall off the wagon here. But reading will help. I promise."

"If you weren't so goddamned adorable when your paranoia sets off."

"Oh god Eames. It's not funny. Really."

He watched her expression soften, watched a crease form between her eyebrows.

"Dammit Bobby. Come to bed. Don't make me grab my backup."

"Please?" Goren pleaded, lifting the worn book in his hands, "I just need to read."

And as soon as he made his request, he immediately regretted it when he saw the crestfallen expression take over her face.

"Okay," she offered quietly, "it's going to be okay though."

One minute passed, and then two. A fucking eternity.

"Eames?"

"Yes?"

"You're having trouble sleeping too?"

She returned his gaze quizzically.

"Why do you ask?"

And it was because he was starting to look outside of himself for once in his fucking life. And it was also because he was moving on past simply understanding that she needed him. It was about going to the next level and being able to give her what she needed, even when it meant a compromise. It was about reading her closer than he ever had before. Fuck. It was about growing up.

After years of working by her side, he'd long discovered that she would never ask for his help. And that her asking him to come to bed might very well be her way of saying that she was nervous too.

Better yet, there was another way to solve the insomnia for both of them - something that didn't involve drugs or distractions. In fact there was an almost proven biochemical solution to block out all fears and anxieties. And surely Dr. Gyson would approve of any effort to cause the rapid firing of brain chemicals, which once released, would heighten feelings of trust between partners.

And the sex was good. Their bodies were finally growing more comfortable with each other, as Goren had carefully noted over a month's time what turned his partner on. She was generally reserved in bed, something that didn't surprise him - as she had always been more practical and reserved in public affairs as well. He on the other hand, was highly emotional, prone to tears after orgasm, and often found himself so pent up before release that he was finding himself more vocal than he'd ever been in his life. Albeit he said very little, just lots of panting, grunting and moaning really, i.e., incoherent caveman like sounds. Not nearly as adorable as her quiet gasps and soft sighs.

And she'd been right all along. The endorphins flooded his troubled mind, while in addition, the oxytocin and prolactin worked wonders to calm him at a very deep physiological level. He pulled her in close before nodding off to sleep. The worries of Hannah's final judgment would have to wait for another day.

* * *

><p>Eight hours later, they walked side by side towards the employee-only entrance from the 1PP parking garage - the very same parking garage, years ago, where he experienced one of the most stressful moments of his entire life. Working his first case with the late Danny Ross, he found himself painfully alone without her, a crowbar in his hand as he broke into the trunk of her Honda civic. And for some ungodly reason, on a day like today where he was facing a completely different kind of dilemma, Goren was reminded of that awful sickening feeling that snaked through his gut when he uncovered the lifeless body of Amanda Shin. The adrenaline produced from the intense shockwaves of fear had worn off slowly, making him nauseous for hours.<p>

"You okay?"

He smiled weakly, "Yeah. Just uh, old memories. I'm okay though."

"Are you really ready for this?"

"The worst thing that could happen is that he fires you."

Eames smiled to reassure him, "he wont. In fact, he might not do anything."

Goren swallowed thickly, pausing to digest and entertain such a bizarre concept. Eames could very well be right.

"And even if he does," Eames paused thoughtfully, before grabbing his cast-less hand, "he can't take _this_ away from us."

With both trepidation and hope, they used their electronic badges to enter through the back door of the eleventh floor. Eames entered first, while he followed closely behind. _She had his back and he had hers._ And for a small moment in time, everything felt right. It would be just another day at Major Case, a stack of old cases to be filed, and a host of new cases waiting to unfold.

And while their fate as detectives on the eleventh floor remained undetermined, their personal foray beyond Major Case was just beginning.

* * *

><p>The End<p>

* * *

><p>Thank you. Thank you. Thank you for all your support. It's over. C'est vrai, c'est triste!<p>

I didn't want to stop writing because I can't bear the thought that in some way, CI has to end. So there it is. I hope someone out there will keep spinning their tales. Please keep Goren and Eames alive.


End file.
